RND 05, or Red Nose Day to the uninitiated, is just a fortnight or so away. However, as has become the custom, Comic Relief use every opportunity ahead of the big guffawfest to publicise their cause and their raison d'etre. They are aided and abetted in this by an extra-ordinarily co-operative BBC, together with a sometimes unlikely combination of retailers and commercial supporters. The American clothes discounter TK Maxx is, I see, the latest to jump on the bandwagon to show themselves as having a Comic Corporate Conscience.
Tonight on BBC ONE also brought an excellent all-star tragi-comic drama, from Lucy Gannon, she of Soldier, Soldier and Peak Practice fame, among many others. One star of the original series of the latter medical romp over the rocks, the Derbyshire Peak District, was Kevin Whateley and he played the part of a loving son driven to desperation by the sudden incapacity of his post-80 father and his mother afflicted by the insult to personality which is Alzheimer's.
I didn't get to watch too much of the programme "live", because I was too busy attending to the new needs of my own mother, who returned home from hospital today. Or rather, attending to the needs of those ladies caring for her personal hygiene needs and transferring her from armchair to the loaned electric bed which now occupies a couple of metres of floorspace where that favourite chair once sat.
The theme that Comic Relief are aiming to alert people to is the little-publicised issue of "Elder Abuse". This refers to the bruising of physical assault of elderly, vulnerable citizens, often by those closest to them. Whately played the son who eventually hits his father in a mad mood of utter desperation at the circumstances imposed upon him and his father's uncharacteristic behaviour.
Please God that I never become like this, but today's events have certainly proved it is not going to be easy adjusting to caring for our newly-housebound Mum. The lounge was just not designed to accomodate such things as an electric hoist- for carers rather than caree-, commodes and sundry other accessories deemed to be necessary for the proper care of a disabled person in these circumstances. It's also only at times like this that you realise quite how much clutter you accumulate in a home over more than forty years.
I'm trying to keep life as normal and family oriented as possible, but am up against "the system", Mum's care plan, and as it often does, that makes me feel slightly angry. The plan at present means that Mum will have TWO female carers come in up to four times a day to attend to her needs- all of which of course takes up space and bites into the privacy and personal space of domestic routine. Not that this has really been my domestic routine for many years, but my filial devotion along with Matthew has made it something that just has to be done.
Please God that we can cope and do this, lovingly and without complaint, for as long as circumstances and your will deem it necessary to do so, Lord. Tonight I got a text from Dave, Chris and Alan, presumably down the pub for their usual Thursday night curry bargain with Wetherspoon. Would that I were able to join them, but not tonight, J D. What this sudden, awful intrusion into the "normality" of my life has shown is how you can be plunged from being a man wandering along life's highway to an emergency service bringing relief and care to the ones who put you there in the first place. I'm certainly learning the hard truths of commitment and love at the moment, as I have to make some surrenders that I don't like at all, of course- though it has to be said that my Mum probably doesn't feel any easier about it than I do, probably much less so actually.
Nevertheless, life must go on and we must do our best and try to make this work. At least the cat seems to approve of the new arrangements, as she has made herself company on Mum's bed- with Mum asleep in it too!- but I'm rather unimpressed that one of the regular carers is not a cat person. You would have thought they could have taken this into account: one of the reasons I wanted Mum to be able to come home was so that she could see and fuss the cat again.
Will I be able to sleep easier tonight? Who knows. Theoretically, my tendency to keep fearing that early morning call from the hospital has now gone, but I find myself now feeling just as worried now that Mum doesn't have the watchful eye of nursing staff over her through the night. You can't win, as a parent or a child, can you.
POPE THE QUESTION
Vatican Radio ought to be the station of choice tonight, to keep an eye on events in the Holy See as the Pope has undergone an emergency tracheotomy. It seems it can only be a matter of time before the Catholic hierarchy once again loses a beloved Holy Father and the Holy Smoke quite literally has to be seen again for the appointment of a successor.
SNOW BUSINESS LIKE SNOW BUSINESS
It would be a rare month in Britain where the weather did not hit the headlines and this week has been the first real taste this winter of disruptive snowfall for many. We've even had a fresh sprinkling in Feltham tonight, though I wonder whether it will still be there when I look out of my window in the morning. Oh how I yearn for the enjoyable stress and action of the Radio Sussex Snowdesk again, my moments of broadcasting "glory" in 1991 when I did my bit to keep the local listeners of South East England informed on the various effects of the white stuff, from buses stuck on hills to schools closed with burst pipes.
Those were the days, and how I long for them again right now. Life seemed so much simpler then, even if I was poor through only being a humble Employment Trainee. Even more would I love to be transported back to the Winter of 63 when we built our first snowman here in a winter garden in Feltham.
Thursday, 24 February 2005
Tuesday, 15 February 2005
Hancock's Half Heard
Typing this while listening to another classic episode of East Cheam's finest export on BBC 7. This is the one where the lad himself was unwise enough to entrust his tax returns to Sid James and ends up owing more than ever due to the latter's rather too creative accounting. Pity I missed the beginning of Hancock's Half Hour, but at least the BBC's digital archive station now gives you no less than four chances to hear it during the course of a day.
This particular show also had a classic Sid James "fluff" when struggling with a particularly tongue twisting script, and a woman in the audience who'd obviously lifted a canister of Nitrous Oxide from her dentist's. Clearly she subscribes to the view that Laughter is the Best Medicine, and I'd be the first to agree.
Having a good chuckle with the best of radio and TV comedy at the moment is proving very helpful in coping with the emotional traumas of this sad and difficult phase of life. It's even more welcome when I can share it with my "little" brother here at home. I hope too that when Mum is discharged from hospital soon, God willing, we will still be able to laugh together as a family from time to time even if our hearts are filled with hidden sadness and anxiety about the future.
Some TV comedies I'd recommend to cheer saddened souls are the new kid on the block "Look Around You", a brilliantly-observed and executed spoof of Tomorrow's World which currently airs at 22.00 local time on BBC TWO television. Last night's looked at the "future" of sport, including a football that is rounder than anything yet seen (which is why it had to remain unseen for legal reasons!), a betting prediction system designed by a carthorse called Championess, and a miracle fuel for athletes based on rocket science which enabled champion Ros Lamb (won't beef about that name!) to run between London and Dundee in under five minutes. All inventions which are bound to be commonplace soon, of course!
This Friday though will be the poorer without "My Hero", the wonderful comic fantasy centring on Father Dougal's altar ego, Thermoman/George Sunday. Apparently, he's been supplanted for one night for the second going of Den Watts on East Enders. Who cares: it was a pretty incredible piece of plotting to bring Dirty Den back from the dead in the first place, and some would say a desperate one.
However, we all wish we could turn back the clock and that bad things wouldn't happen, or that some superhero could save us from destruction, or even that we could swap minds or lives with someone else, or filter out the bad parts of ourselves- this was partly the premise of last Friday's brilliant episode, one of the funniest yet. Part of the appeal of the Ardal O'Hanlon characters is their childlike naievity. Our children are the font of all laughter, a reminder that God has the faith and the trust for our race to carry on despite all our awfulness and the terrible things that happen to us or we do to each other.
Observing Lent is proving particularly painful and difficult for me at the moment, as Matthew and I have had to face up to the challenges and the difficult decisions which what could be Mum's final illness bring. I say could, because laughter it seems to me is the twin of hope and the last thing any of us should give up is Hope.
Nobody really knows what course Mum's illness will take, or how long lies ahead of her. Of course, for our own sake I guess of having her with us to share, I hope it will be as long as possible, but the experience of others tends to make one think the worst in worldly terms-but ultimately only God knows.
Early Sunday morning brought the sort of phone call I had been dreading, at 04.15, to say that Mum was "not feeling very well". We prepared ourselves for the worst, raced to the hospital to find Mum indeed looking very poorly. But alleluia, she pulled through- and indeed, knew little about this happening the next day. 34 hours later, when I visited yesterday, I found her looking very much better, back on normal foods and fluids and even able to stand for a short while when getting out of bed. It may not be much but it mattered, and it made all the difference to my own piece of mind. Good days, bad days. Little things matter to a Bird's Eye Mum, as an advertising slogan of yore said! Let us hope that these good days will outnumber the bad for as long as possible.
Yesterday's experiences came after a half hour prayer session from me before I visited and no doubt added to by the cherished friends who I know are putting up their own requests before the almighty at the moment. God does not or cannot always answer our prayers as we would wish, but I am sure he does and he indeed brings the peace that passes all understanding.
That is my hope, and indeed, it is at the core of Christian belief. We will all have to face a final parting from this life at some stage-whether it be losing the ones we love and those who raised us, or our own exit from the stage show of life. When people laugh, they are allowing themselves to believe that despite the sad events which none of us can avoid eventually, there is always something to be cheerful about, to enjoy and to celebrate. Perhaps that's why Jesus himself was portrayed as a clown in Godspell- or was it Superstar? Like Hancock, sometimes the most brilliant humour can still emerge from tragic or unhappy events. Dermot Morgan, star of Father Ted, lost his life suddenly in West Middlesex hospital a few years back, but the brilliance of that show and its star will remain.
But this life is really just the warm up, albeit one that often fails to raise chuckles of the intensity of that woman on Hancock's Half Hour today. But the life which is to come will bring joy immeasurable and be worth the waiting and patient endurance.
ALL OUR YESTERDAYS
Thank heavens for the invention of the magnetic tape and its successors in recording technology. Without them, we could not have the authentic experience of enjoying again the brilliance of the performances of three comedy giants now dead or the laughter of that wonderful woman who made that show so memorable that night in 1958 that HHH was recorded. I wonder where she is now- she could well still be with us!
Thanks to the tape recorder, great voices and talents of old do not surrender their personality or their influence when they leave this mortal coil, but leave the most precious of legacies to future generations. Every word uttered or written, every poignant or profound song lyric, every stroke of brush on canvas of the genius of a Leonardo, or the balletic brilliance of a Nijinsky, reminds us that life is a continuity. Yes, what will be will be- that is the part we strangely find so hard to take sometimes- but equally, what has been, has been! Now what is the Italian for that, and why hasn't Doris Day sung it yet!
THIS SCEPTRED ISLE
Started my mid-morning BBC 7 listening today with This Sceptred Isle-the Twentieth Century, focussing today on the havoc-wreaking events of the mid seventies as the Heath government was nearing collapse.
History matters. Sorry, Henry Ford, but a bed is bunk, not the study of man's activities and his wonderful but also awful ways. When you are faced with the declining health of a loved one and have to accept their eventual loss, the living grief you experience is as much for the apparent departure of your past, of a way of life that is now "Gone with the Wind", to quote those classic lines from Margaret Mitchell's ever popular book/film.
I guess some of my own grief at present is as I now contemplate the changes that have to be made here at home. I well recall back in 1974, before the desperate measures of chancellor Denis Healey took VAT on luxury goods to a staggering 25 per cent, we bought our first hi-fi stereo, had a new carpet fitted and got a new gas cooker to replace our New World stove which had cooked around twelve thousands meals in my lifetime. And long before Carol Smilie got in on the act, we were Changing Rooms, as the lounge became the dining room and vice versa.
Now, thirty one years later, that Dynatron Hi-Fi still sits comfortably in place where Dad installed it back then, though the Toshiba tape deck with the incomprehensible instructions has long since gone to magnetic heaven. Whether the Hi-FI can remain there much longer than a week though remains open to question. It's rarely used these days anyway, but will never be dispensed with as long as I am around, I'm sure. But the space may be needed for a bedroom come sitting room for Mum.
The Dynatron from Pye of Cambridge: such a wonderful piece of cabinet making, creating a beautiful sound on FM even though the windings on the AM tuning dial have long since limpened to the extent that accurate tuning is now impossible.
For what was heard and recorded on this wonderful combination of equipment were the sounds and the songs of my adolescence and some of my parent's golden years. Hopefully, hearing these may still be able to bring some comfort and enjoyment to the eighty year old ears which sung many of those songs in the times when she had a lovely voice, and which I hope I have inherited albeit in the tenor variety.
This morning, we had a visit from the Occupational Therapists from Ashford Hospital, who were measuring our lounge for suitability of installing a hospital bed, hoist and chair, which it now seems would be essential for the safety of Mum's carers. It's hard to accept that Mum may- again, I always say may- never be able again to climb the steps to the first floor of our thirties semi and to her own bedroom and the bathroom. But it's still home, and I hope she will still be happy here.
I feel in my prime now at 45, indeed I probably feel inwardly about ten years younger. I guess that is what makes it hardest in some ways to accept what is now happening, all these changes and the sudden unwelcome intrusion into my own growth. But maybe this is part of God's way, and this is necessary. But it sure isn't easy, and my thoughts are with any of you who has ever experienced any similar life-shaking experiences or is going through them right now.
But right now I really need to hold to those words on the front of one of my notebooks: "God, grant me the courage to change the things I can change, serenity to accept those I cannot, and wisdom to know the difference". But as I said, it's often hard for me, because my mind seems to work in such an analytical way as well as being imaginative of things and experiences yet to happen, good or bad. It's that which produces anxiety.
Nevertheless, nothing can take away the past -it's there, another country, passport-stamped countless times in photos physical and mental, visited, enjoyed and sometimes endured but all part of our tapestry of life. The carpet in the lounge may have several threadbare holes right now, but the Lord is sewing up the fabric of time all the while. When this earthly garment is finally worn out, like my old raincoat finally about to go to a jumble sale, what a wonderful new clothing we should all see to replace it. So, as it's London Fashion Week- taking place in Battersea Park this year, another place I fondly remember, maybe it's time to update the wardrobe!
D-DAY REMEMBERED
In case you've wondered, most of these postings are written in "real time", with only the occasional bit of sub-editing to correct errors of grammar, spelling or dare I say the occasional fact! As a result, you're really getting the unfiltered, honest written outpourings of my mental processes at times. I hope you don't feel that you are being flooded with them, but as I said earlier there is something of a tsunami of emotion going through me at the moment, yet writing down my thoughts for public reading somehow helps. However, there are also the happier, more trivial reflections but my grasshopper mind is inclined to skip over them! Nevertheless, I couldn't conclude today's posts without another vivid memory of the seventies, this time of that "other" D-Day when Pounds, Shillings and Pence had to make way for decimal currency in Britain.
Is that when the rot set in? Mmm, some would say it was but at least we still have the pound- for the moment. My most vivid memory of D-day though is of paying for my school dinner (it was a Monday, you see). Suddenly, it was priced at 9p instead of 1/=10 (that's one shilling and tenpence for younger readers!). Hence, a shiny new penny in change from my converted two shilling piece which has suddenly become a ten pence bit. But what to do with that penny? Ooh, difficult decision: do we preserve it for posterity? Of course not! Straight down to C F Avery, the local sweetshop, against the rules of course, for two "black jacks", or was it half-penny chews, out of the sight of battleaxe and spare battleaxe, the revered dinner ladies of Feltham Lower School. Their real names have been disguised to avoid any nasty legal actions!
This particular show also had a classic Sid James "fluff" when struggling with a particularly tongue twisting script, and a woman in the audience who'd obviously lifted a canister of Nitrous Oxide from her dentist's. Clearly she subscribes to the view that Laughter is the Best Medicine, and I'd be the first to agree.
Having a good chuckle with the best of radio and TV comedy at the moment is proving very helpful in coping with the emotional traumas of this sad and difficult phase of life. It's even more welcome when I can share it with my "little" brother here at home. I hope too that when Mum is discharged from hospital soon, God willing, we will still be able to laugh together as a family from time to time even if our hearts are filled with hidden sadness and anxiety about the future.
Some TV comedies I'd recommend to cheer saddened souls are the new kid on the block "Look Around You", a brilliantly-observed and executed spoof of Tomorrow's World which currently airs at 22.00 local time on BBC TWO television. Last night's looked at the "future" of sport, including a football that is rounder than anything yet seen (which is why it had to remain unseen for legal reasons!), a betting prediction system designed by a carthorse called Championess, and a miracle fuel for athletes based on rocket science which enabled champion Ros Lamb (won't beef about that name!) to run between London and Dundee in under five minutes. All inventions which are bound to be commonplace soon, of course!
This Friday though will be the poorer without "My Hero", the wonderful comic fantasy centring on Father Dougal's altar ego, Thermoman/George Sunday. Apparently, he's been supplanted for one night for the second going of Den Watts on East Enders. Who cares: it was a pretty incredible piece of plotting to bring Dirty Den back from the dead in the first place, and some would say a desperate one.
However, we all wish we could turn back the clock and that bad things wouldn't happen, or that some superhero could save us from destruction, or even that we could swap minds or lives with someone else, or filter out the bad parts of ourselves- this was partly the premise of last Friday's brilliant episode, one of the funniest yet. Part of the appeal of the Ardal O'Hanlon characters is their childlike naievity. Our children are the font of all laughter, a reminder that God has the faith and the trust for our race to carry on despite all our awfulness and the terrible things that happen to us or we do to each other.
Observing Lent is proving particularly painful and difficult for me at the moment, as Matthew and I have had to face up to the challenges and the difficult decisions which what could be Mum's final illness bring. I say could, because laughter it seems to me is the twin of hope and the last thing any of us should give up is Hope.
Nobody really knows what course Mum's illness will take, or how long lies ahead of her. Of course, for our own sake I guess of having her with us to share, I hope it will be as long as possible, but the experience of others tends to make one think the worst in worldly terms-but ultimately only God knows.
Early Sunday morning brought the sort of phone call I had been dreading, at 04.15, to say that Mum was "not feeling very well". We prepared ourselves for the worst, raced to the hospital to find Mum indeed looking very poorly. But alleluia, she pulled through- and indeed, knew little about this happening the next day. 34 hours later, when I visited yesterday, I found her looking very much better, back on normal foods and fluids and even able to stand for a short while when getting out of bed. It may not be much but it mattered, and it made all the difference to my own piece of mind. Good days, bad days. Little things matter to a Bird's Eye Mum, as an advertising slogan of yore said! Let us hope that these good days will outnumber the bad for as long as possible.
Yesterday's experiences came after a half hour prayer session from me before I visited and no doubt added to by the cherished friends who I know are putting up their own requests before the almighty at the moment. God does not or cannot always answer our prayers as we would wish, but I am sure he does and he indeed brings the peace that passes all understanding.
That is my hope, and indeed, it is at the core of Christian belief. We will all have to face a final parting from this life at some stage-whether it be losing the ones we love and those who raised us, or our own exit from the stage show of life. When people laugh, they are allowing themselves to believe that despite the sad events which none of us can avoid eventually, there is always something to be cheerful about, to enjoy and to celebrate. Perhaps that's why Jesus himself was portrayed as a clown in Godspell- or was it Superstar? Like Hancock, sometimes the most brilliant humour can still emerge from tragic or unhappy events. Dermot Morgan, star of Father Ted, lost his life suddenly in West Middlesex hospital a few years back, but the brilliance of that show and its star will remain.
But this life is really just the warm up, albeit one that often fails to raise chuckles of the intensity of that woman on Hancock's Half Hour today. But the life which is to come will bring joy immeasurable and be worth the waiting and patient endurance.
ALL OUR YESTERDAYS
Thank heavens for the invention of the magnetic tape and its successors in recording technology. Without them, we could not have the authentic experience of enjoying again the brilliance of the performances of three comedy giants now dead or the laughter of that wonderful woman who made that show so memorable that night in 1958 that HHH was recorded. I wonder where she is now- she could well still be with us!
Thanks to the tape recorder, great voices and talents of old do not surrender their personality or their influence when they leave this mortal coil, but leave the most precious of legacies to future generations. Every word uttered or written, every poignant or profound song lyric, every stroke of brush on canvas of the genius of a Leonardo, or the balletic brilliance of a Nijinsky, reminds us that life is a continuity. Yes, what will be will be- that is the part we strangely find so hard to take sometimes- but equally, what has been, has been! Now what is the Italian for that, and why hasn't Doris Day sung it yet!
THIS SCEPTRED ISLE
Started my mid-morning BBC 7 listening today with This Sceptred Isle-the Twentieth Century, focussing today on the havoc-wreaking events of the mid seventies as the Heath government was nearing collapse.
History matters. Sorry, Henry Ford, but a bed is bunk, not the study of man's activities and his wonderful but also awful ways. When you are faced with the declining health of a loved one and have to accept their eventual loss, the living grief you experience is as much for the apparent departure of your past, of a way of life that is now "Gone with the Wind", to quote those classic lines from Margaret Mitchell's ever popular book/film.
I guess some of my own grief at present is as I now contemplate the changes that have to be made here at home. I well recall back in 1974, before the desperate measures of chancellor Denis Healey took VAT on luxury goods to a staggering 25 per cent, we bought our first hi-fi stereo, had a new carpet fitted and got a new gas cooker to replace our New World stove which had cooked around twelve thousands meals in my lifetime. And long before Carol Smilie got in on the act, we were Changing Rooms, as the lounge became the dining room and vice versa.
Now, thirty one years later, that Dynatron Hi-Fi still sits comfortably in place where Dad installed it back then, though the Toshiba tape deck with the incomprehensible instructions has long since gone to magnetic heaven. Whether the Hi-FI can remain there much longer than a week though remains open to question. It's rarely used these days anyway, but will never be dispensed with as long as I am around, I'm sure. But the space may be needed for a bedroom come sitting room for Mum.
The Dynatron from Pye of Cambridge: such a wonderful piece of cabinet making, creating a beautiful sound on FM even though the windings on the AM tuning dial have long since limpened to the extent that accurate tuning is now impossible.
For what was heard and recorded on this wonderful combination of equipment were the sounds and the songs of my adolescence and some of my parent's golden years. Hopefully, hearing these may still be able to bring some comfort and enjoyment to the eighty year old ears which sung many of those songs in the times when she had a lovely voice, and which I hope I have inherited albeit in the tenor variety.
This morning, we had a visit from the Occupational Therapists from Ashford Hospital, who were measuring our lounge for suitability of installing a hospital bed, hoist and chair, which it now seems would be essential for the safety of Mum's carers. It's hard to accept that Mum may- again, I always say may- never be able again to climb the steps to the first floor of our thirties semi and to her own bedroom and the bathroom. But it's still home, and I hope she will still be happy here.
I feel in my prime now at 45, indeed I probably feel inwardly about ten years younger. I guess that is what makes it hardest in some ways to accept what is now happening, all these changes and the sudden unwelcome intrusion into my own growth. But maybe this is part of God's way, and this is necessary. But it sure isn't easy, and my thoughts are with any of you who has ever experienced any similar life-shaking experiences or is going through them right now.
But right now I really need to hold to those words on the front of one of my notebooks: "God, grant me the courage to change the things I can change, serenity to accept those I cannot, and wisdom to know the difference". But as I said, it's often hard for me, because my mind seems to work in such an analytical way as well as being imaginative of things and experiences yet to happen, good or bad. It's that which produces anxiety.
Nevertheless, nothing can take away the past -it's there, another country, passport-stamped countless times in photos physical and mental, visited, enjoyed and sometimes endured but all part of our tapestry of life. The carpet in the lounge may have several threadbare holes right now, but the Lord is sewing up the fabric of time all the while. When this earthly garment is finally worn out, like my old raincoat finally about to go to a jumble sale, what a wonderful new clothing we should all see to replace it. So, as it's London Fashion Week- taking place in Battersea Park this year, another place I fondly remember, maybe it's time to update the wardrobe!
D-DAY REMEMBERED
In case you've wondered, most of these postings are written in "real time", with only the occasional bit of sub-editing to correct errors of grammar, spelling or dare I say the occasional fact! As a result, you're really getting the unfiltered, honest written outpourings of my mental processes at times. I hope you don't feel that you are being flooded with them, but as I said earlier there is something of a tsunami of emotion going through me at the moment, yet writing down my thoughts for public reading somehow helps. However, there are also the happier, more trivial reflections but my grasshopper mind is inclined to skip over them! Nevertheless, I couldn't conclude today's posts without another vivid memory of the seventies, this time of that "other" D-Day when Pounds, Shillings and Pence had to make way for decimal currency in Britain.
Is that when the rot set in? Mmm, some would say it was but at least we still have the pound- for the moment. My most vivid memory of D-day though is of paying for my school dinner (it was a Monday, you see). Suddenly, it was priced at 9p instead of 1/=10 (that's one shilling and tenpence for younger readers!). Hence, a shiny new penny in change from my converted two shilling piece which has suddenly become a ten pence bit. But what to do with that penny? Ooh, difficult decision: do we preserve it for posterity? Of course not! Straight down to C F Avery, the local sweetshop, against the rules of course, for two "black jacks", or was it half-penny chews, out of the sight of battleaxe and spare battleaxe, the revered dinner ladies of Feltham Lower School. Their real names have been disguised to avoid any nasty legal actions!
Friday, 4 February 2005
Batteries Not Included
John Humphrys was silenced in his prime Today. Not by some spinning politician who had got the better of him, nor by any seasonal lurgy, but by a dawn power cut here in West Middlesex. There was I about to enjoy the review of the papers and catch up on the world’s events, when suddenly it was silent. No radio, no telly. All the familiar accompaniments to our home life had been snatched away from us and we were powerless to do anything about it, literally. It took 90 minutes for the electricity supply to return here, but at least our home has a gas supply for boiling water (and indeed toasting crumpets!).
I couldn’t possibly start the day without my cuppa. I could hardly start it without the radio, either. However, I was ill prepared in not having a battery or self-powered radio set to hand. There's a metaphor here too, I am sure, for how often this applies to our unreadiness for the crises of life, let alone an energy crisis like that of 31 years ago currently being recalled in the excellent TV adaptation of Jonathan Coe's The Rotter's Club on BBC Two. It brings back instant, largely happy memories of my own adolescence in the mid-Seventies, and of bedtime listening to Robbie Vincent with The Crisis Programme when the TV screens went blank at 10.30 by official diktat to save power. It was a source of some amusement to two teenage brothers in Feltham, and inspired Matthew to create several memorable cartoon characters such as No Telly Nelly, shown in nightgown and carrying candle, and Power Cut Pete- not to mention Blackout Bert.
Power cuts in the noughties then come as something of a shock to the system, but seem to be happening more regularly than they once did. Unlike my brother, who wakes to his bedroom telly every morning, I enjoy my daily dose of Messrs Humprhys, Naughtie, Stourton et al, though I’m rather less keen on their female counterparts such as Sarah Montague. Radio 4 even seems to have taken to having double-headed female presentation on some of the Today shifts, but for me it just does not work. The voices they use are just far too earnest and almost harsh, lacking that subtle mixture of gravitas and warmth that was the great strength of the still-missed Sue McGregor.
A perfect Today for me blends the serious probing of a post-eight political interview with the lightness of touch, information, humour and occasional silliness which we all need when we are bleakly faced with the start of another weekday after the comforts of a night’s slumber. With new traumas to face in my own life at the moment, I find the radio is particularly important right now. The trio of experienced journos named above manage to satisfy my breakfast listening diet pretty well most of the time, though one of my Radio 4 heroes remains that champion of Macclesfield, the late Brian Redhead.
MEN'S SANA IN CORPORA SOUNDA
What is it then about men’s voices? Despite the best efforts of some entertainment stations with the crucial breakfast slot, it’s still the male jocks and hacks that steal the scene and get the ratings. At the other end of the working day too, Johnnie Walker has admirably filled the void left by the retirement of the late, great John Dunn on Radio 2. So much a fan of “Big John” was I, that as an 11 year old I launched a short-lived campaign to keep him on Breakfast Special when that Radio One interloper from the Emerald Isle, Wogan T, was about to usurp him. Of course, my campaign came to no avail, though I have to concede that Wogan’s words and music are ratings toppers now and deservedly so (even though I usually only listen to about a quarter-hour of him myself, around Pause for Thought).
Radio is a warm and very comforting companion in a way that TV, at Breakfast or otherwise, can never be. The interface of a glassy screen always gives it something of the experience of gazing on a goldfish bowl: you’re there, I’m here and ne’er the twain shall meet. Good old steam wireless however thrives on the most important piece of advice given to any aspiring presenter: remember you are speaking to an audience of one. Johnny Walker recognised this in an interview with Lisa Tarbuck, which I caught part of in the car park of Ashford Hospital before going in for my daily visit to my Mum in her hospital bed after I had spent an afternoon on the coast dealing with some of my home matters there. Johnny’s listeners had apparently been making comments about what a friend radio is, and who am I to disagree.
Back in the early seventies when I first seriously got into radio, there was no commercial radio in the UK: no phone-ins, no Classic FM, no all-night BBC Seven and certainly no 24/7 Radios 1, 2 and 3. Instead, if you hadn’t already reached the Land of Nod, you could take a Night Ride until 02.00, when the excellent Theme One by George Martin closed the BBC’s domestic network for another day until re-surfacing on Radio Two a few hours later with Ray Moore, another much-missed denizen of the silver speaker.
I still often sought solace in the still of the night however, and this is when stations such as AFN and the BBC’s European service (long since defunct) came to the fore. AFN was like another world, particularly when the American Football commentaries came on. Even if I could not make a blind bit of sense of the action, somehow there was something very comforting about knowing that while I struggled to sleep, sometimes, on another continent the evening was in full flow.
It wasn’t just the footie on AFN though. I probably would have soon stopped listening to those fadey Medium Wave signals if it were. Just as important were the music programmes, with the hit parade of the moment, the same oft-repeated tunes on different nights, juxtaposed with the nocturnal meanderings of the yankee presenters aiming to bring a touch of home to their boys in West Germany in the bad old days before the wall fell.
However, sometimes the interplay between the tunes chosen and my idiosyncratic mental processes was a fraught one. I well remember that "Band of Gold" by Freda Payne was a regular AFN favourite. I guess it describes a broken relationship, but at a time when my Dad was in hospital for reasons my 12-year old mind did not wholly understand ( I later discovered it was because of stress- or as we would call it today “burn out”) the line “Now that you’ve gone, all that’s left is a Band of Gold…” kept making me think of Dad in hospital, and that he had died suddenly! That is the way this Savage mind tends to work-sometimes anxious, rather imaginative, but always longing in a rather childlike way even now for things to be better.
HOW TO SLEEP BETTER
Thirty-four years on, the music may have changed, the voices certainly have and we are blessed, if that is the word, with a plethora of both digital and analogue audio services at our beck and call every hour of the day. Whether your taste is for shock jocks or baroque, you’re sure to find somewhere on the “dial” where you can find an audio solace at any hour of the day or night. I’m very grateful for that, and certainly leaving the radio on has enabled me to divert my thoughts from worries and concerns on many an occasion to enjoy a comfortable night, as they say.
I’ve always tended to be a light sleeper, which probably makes me just the kind of listener that the commercial stations need really; otherwise, I’ve always wondered how they manage to make any money from the night shift-which probably accounts for so much awful automated programming in the graveyard shift from smaller commercial stations. The whole point about overnight radio is that it should be intimate: in the loneliness of insomnia, or night-time driving fully awake, you know there is someone else out there sharing it with you. Unless it turns nasty, as in Clint Eastwood’s classic film Play Misty for Me, you’ve got a friend on the radio. Indeed, James Taylor’s You’ve Got a Friend was another favourite song of mine as a pre-teen listener, though probably more in the garden shed than the bunk bed.Hours and hours of computer-selected music don’t do it for me: there’s got to be some evidence of human habitation out there, even if it is in an ancient repeat of a Radio 4 comedy-but then that’s often what the World Service brought in the small hours anyway and BBC 7 now pleasingly reprieves.
You can tell then that I am all for having the radio by my bedside until morning is nigh, and having it on even if at low volume. This is a practice which would probably not be endorsed by some of the “experts” featured in an enjoyable one-off documentary feature on BBC ONE on Wednesday night called How to Sleep Better. It was presented by that TV doyen of all things to do with the mind and body, Lord Robert Winston. It seems you need an uncluttered bedroom to sleep soundly, according to one of the pundits: no wonder then that this untidy bachelor is such a light sleeper! I know I need to tidy up my “personal space”, but I will not pay any heed to the suggestion that a bedroom should be kept free of electrical and home entertainment equipment. Me and my radio are as close as boy and teddy and I will not surrender that lightly (the radio, not the teddy that is, who eventually departed when I was seventeenish!)
WHAT A FRIEND WE HAVE IN RADIO
I’m sorry, I don’t wish to sound irreverent. If you’re a regular reader of my blog, then I hope you haven’t suffered any withdrawal symptoms from the absence of more regular postings over the last couple of weeks. For all I know you could have been using my ramblings as an aid to sleep anyway: among the suggestions for getting back off to sleep after a tough night is to read a book or some other not too stimulating material for a while. If this is you, I hope it doesn’t reflect a boring writing style on my part! I’ve written a bit about radio again this time because I know many of my readers are dear friends in the British DX Club. It’s time I pay them and my favourite hobby some homage anew.
BDXC has been the source of my most enduring and rewarding friendships for nearly thirty years now. As in life, people come and people go from our club, but we now have around 500 members around the world. That is part of the wonderful bond which a radio set and a postage stamp fostered long before the World Wide Web was even a glimmer in the mind of Tim Berners-Lee, recently ennobled belatedly for his development of this wonderfully accessible medium of the internet. I know I have friends out there who care about what is happening in my life, my sorrows, triumphs and challenges, just as much as I care about theirs. One friend welcomed a new life into the world this Tuesday for instance, so hi to Jonathan Michael Guy up there in sunny Stockport! Maybe Mum and Dad are having to rely on the radio for company as they stay awake with their new bundle of joy right now.
Just as life has its joys, though, it also has its sorrows which sooner or later we all have to face in one form or another. There is a lot of truth in the saying “a trouble shared is a trouble halved”- or perhaps if a radio agony uncle or aunt is involved, maybe the fraction would be even smaller! I certainly had times in the traumas of teenagerdom when I was tempted to rush to Raeburn (Anna) for my solace.
However, everybody goes through changes. It’s a part of life, but not an easy part at times. Although part of the fun of being in a radio club is knowing what is out there to hear and sharing it, everyone will hear it with a different, unique pair of ears and eyes. Their brain will receive the information signals, be they speech or music, coming out of the radio speaker or headphones and process it in a way which is theirs alone. This is where the world of ideas, creativity, thought and even spiritual inspiration start. It's also where, when having trouble processing the incoming signal, as if through a mush of radio noise, undue anxiety and frustration can start.
It is through a radio friendship that the most important relationship in my life, with Jesus Christ, was re-kindled twenty years ago this month, and it is to that relationship that I am having to look for comfort, solace, guidance, wisdom and freedom from anxiety at the present time when even friends can't provide all the answers or cheer. Again I face the prospect of a loved one with a possibly life-limiting illness (for real this time). If she were still on air, I’m afraid Anna Raeburn alone could not offer an answer for this one. Even Esther Rantzen would have to say That’s Life!. With all it’s joys and sorrows, life is a beautiful but occasionally painful mystery- yet which I firmly believe for those who trust in Our Lord will carry on forever even when that fantastic signal which is our own ID has long faded into the ether. We look to the radio as our audio beach if you like, but we all have to face the turn of the tide at some point in our lives and the cloud which dominates the skyline here in my family home of 44 years reflects the mood of the moment in my heart. I would far rather be visiting the seaside studios of Radio Platja d’Aro in Catalonia, as I did in February 1985 than hospital bedsides or sitting here in Feltham, unemployed and having to face difficult decisions on behalf of my loved ones. Then as now, I know though that God is full of surprises and there is nothing wrong with hoping for a miracle, even praying for it or the next best thing, even when the chances of extended transmissions seem slim.
My visit to the former accommodation address of a pirate (somebody please post me a reminder of which one!) was made after “gatecrashing” the holiday of two BDXC friends,
But the music goes round and round and it comes out here! It may have been written with the phonograph in mind, but it is just as applicable to the radio. Unlike the tides and the torrents all too clearly seen in Winter 2004/5, the unseen radio wave can bring a tsunami of blessings into the home and into the heart. Just recently, I have valued even more such gems as Prayer for the Day, Pause for Thought and especially the Daily Service. Somehow, through the broadcast word and favourite hymns I have been able to see God at work, and thus I have seen hope for the moment and for the future. It’s extraordinary how just hearing the tune of "What a Friend We Have In Jesus" can indeed bring comfort- even when it is in the clever adaptation by Alan Price – heard on Heartbeat over Christmas- of this Victorian hymn which I referred to earlier. Everybody is going through changes all the time- to change is to grow, it is said.
The radio scene has changed immeasurably since I joined BDXC in 1976, and now the club itself is changing this year with Chris Brand moving into the editorial hot seat to succeed Tony Rogers, who has decided to step down from the reins of Communication this Spring after an incredible two decades. It will be interesting to see what changes happen, and what stays the same. What we can take on board from the past, and what we can bring to the club with the best of the present, for the future. Whatever happens, I am sure the club will stay lively, and my prayer is it will become even more friendly.
This is my prayer too for life, my own and that of my friends and loved ones, whose own worries are not unknown to me even as I grappel with my own. Another favourite hymn comes to mind: Amazing Grace: How Sweet the Sound. Where there is life, there is hope- and where there is hope, there is God.
.. UNASHAMED PLUG TIME..For anyone within reach of Reading, Berkshire, a reminder that this weekend sees the re-launch of the long-running Reading International Radio Group meetings at a new venue in the town. More details in the diary section at www.bdxc.org.uk . Hoping to catch up with some of you there, but otherwise I will do my best to post here again soon. Keep visiting regularly to check for updates, but please bear with me if I’m not so verbose for a while or if I appear a little sombre in tone. And if you’re a praying person, God bless you brother or sister- please add the family Savage to your list!
I couldn’t possibly start the day without my cuppa. I could hardly start it without the radio, either. However, I was ill prepared in not having a battery or self-powered radio set to hand. There's a metaphor here too, I am sure, for how often this applies to our unreadiness for the crises of life, let alone an energy crisis like that of 31 years ago currently being recalled in the excellent TV adaptation of Jonathan Coe's The Rotter's Club on BBC Two. It brings back instant, largely happy memories of my own adolescence in the mid-Seventies, and of bedtime listening to Robbie Vincent with The Crisis Programme when the TV screens went blank at 10.30 by official diktat to save power. It was a source of some amusement to two teenage brothers in Feltham, and inspired Matthew to create several memorable cartoon characters such as No Telly Nelly, shown in nightgown and carrying candle, and Power Cut Pete- not to mention Blackout Bert.
Power cuts in the noughties then come as something of a shock to the system, but seem to be happening more regularly than they once did. Unlike my brother, who wakes to his bedroom telly every morning, I enjoy my daily dose of Messrs Humprhys, Naughtie, Stourton et al, though I’m rather less keen on their female counterparts such as Sarah Montague. Radio 4 even seems to have taken to having double-headed female presentation on some of the Today shifts, but for me it just does not work. The voices they use are just far too earnest and almost harsh, lacking that subtle mixture of gravitas and warmth that was the great strength of the still-missed Sue McGregor.
A perfect Today for me blends the serious probing of a post-eight political interview with the lightness of touch, information, humour and occasional silliness which we all need when we are bleakly faced with the start of another weekday after the comforts of a night’s slumber. With new traumas to face in my own life at the moment, I find the radio is particularly important right now. The trio of experienced journos named above manage to satisfy my breakfast listening diet pretty well most of the time, though one of my Radio 4 heroes remains that champion of Macclesfield, the late Brian Redhead.
MEN'S SANA IN CORPORA SOUNDA
What is it then about men’s voices? Despite the best efforts of some entertainment stations with the crucial breakfast slot, it’s still the male jocks and hacks that steal the scene and get the ratings. At the other end of the working day too, Johnnie Walker has admirably filled the void left by the retirement of the late, great John Dunn on Radio 2. So much a fan of “Big John” was I, that as an 11 year old I launched a short-lived campaign to keep him on Breakfast Special when that Radio One interloper from the Emerald Isle, Wogan T, was about to usurp him. Of course, my campaign came to no avail, though I have to concede that Wogan’s words and music are ratings toppers now and deservedly so (even though I usually only listen to about a quarter-hour of him myself, around Pause for Thought).
Radio is a warm and very comforting companion in a way that TV, at Breakfast or otherwise, can never be. The interface of a glassy screen always gives it something of the experience of gazing on a goldfish bowl: you’re there, I’m here and ne’er the twain shall meet. Good old steam wireless however thrives on the most important piece of advice given to any aspiring presenter: remember you are speaking to an audience of one. Johnny Walker recognised this in an interview with Lisa Tarbuck, which I caught part of in the car park of Ashford Hospital before going in for my daily visit to my Mum in her hospital bed after I had spent an afternoon on the coast dealing with some of my home matters there. Johnny’s listeners had apparently been making comments about what a friend radio is, and who am I to disagree.
Back in the early seventies when I first seriously got into radio, there was no commercial radio in the UK: no phone-ins, no Classic FM, no all-night BBC Seven and certainly no 24/7 Radios 1, 2 and 3. Instead, if you hadn’t already reached the Land of Nod, you could take a Night Ride until 02.00, when the excellent Theme One by George Martin closed the BBC’s domestic network for another day until re-surfacing on Radio Two a few hours later with Ray Moore, another much-missed denizen of the silver speaker.
I still often sought solace in the still of the night however, and this is when stations such as AFN and the BBC’s European service (long since defunct) came to the fore. AFN was like another world, particularly when the American Football commentaries came on. Even if I could not make a blind bit of sense of the action, somehow there was something very comforting about knowing that while I struggled to sleep, sometimes, on another continent the evening was in full flow.
It wasn’t just the footie on AFN though. I probably would have soon stopped listening to those fadey Medium Wave signals if it were. Just as important were the music programmes, with the hit parade of the moment, the same oft-repeated tunes on different nights, juxtaposed with the nocturnal meanderings of the yankee presenters aiming to bring a touch of home to their boys in West Germany in the bad old days before the wall fell.
However, sometimes the interplay between the tunes chosen and my idiosyncratic mental processes was a fraught one. I well remember that "Band of Gold" by Freda Payne was a regular AFN favourite. I guess it describes a broken relationship, but at a time when my Dad was in hospital for reasons my 12-year old mind did not wholly understand ( I later discovered it was because of stress- or as we would call it today “burn out”) the line “Now that you’ve gone, all that’s left is a Band of Gold…” kept making me think of Dad in hospital, and that he had died suddenly! That is the way this Savage mind tends to work-sometimes anxious, rather imaginative, but always longing in a rather childlike way even now for things to be better.
HOW TO SLEEP BETTER
Thirty-four years on, the music may have changed, the voices certainly have and we are blessed, if that is the word, with a plethora of both digital and analogue audio services at our beck and call every hour of the day. Whether your taste is for shock jocks or baroque, you’re sure to find somewhere on the “dial” where you can find an audio solace at any hour of the day or night. I’m very grateful for that, and certainly leaving the radio on has enabled me to divert my thoughts from worries and concerns on many an occasion to enjoy a comfortable night, as they say.
I’ve always tended to be a light sleeper, which probably makes me just the kind of listener that the commercial stations need really; otherwise, I’ve always wondered how they manage to make any money from the night shift-which probably accounts for so much awful automated programming in the graveyard shift from smaller commercial stations. The whole point about overnight radio is that it should be intimate: in the loneliness of insomnia, or night-time driving fully awake, you know there is someone else out there sharing it with you. Unless it turns nasty, as in Clint Eastwood’s classic film Play Misty for Me, you’ve got a friend on the radio. Indeed, James Taylor’s You’ve Got a Friend was another favourite song of mine as a pre-teen listener, though probably more in the garden shed than the bunk bed.Hours and hours of computer-selected music don’t do it for me: there’s got to be some evidence of human habitation out there, even if it is in an ancient repeat of a Radio 4 comedy-but then that’s often what the World Service brought in the small hours anyway and BBC 7 now pleasingly reprieves.
You can tell then that I am all for having the radio by my bedside until morning is nigh, and having it on even if at low volume. This is a practice which would probably not be endorsed by some of the “experts” featured in an enjoyable one-off documentary feature on BBC ONE on Wednesday night called How to Sleep Better. It was presented by that TV doyen of all things to do with the mind and body, Lord Robert Winston. It seems you need an uncluttered bedroom to sleep soundly, according to one of the pundits: no wonder then that this untidy bachelor is such a light sleeper! I know I need to tidy up my “personal space”, but I will not pay any heed to the suggestion that a bedroom should be kept free of electrical and home entertainment equipment. Me and my radio are as close as boy and teddy and I will not surrender that lightly (the radio, not the teddy that is, who eventually departed when I was seventeenish!)
WHAT A FRIEND WE HAVE IN RADIO
I’m sorry, I don’t wish to sound irreverent. If you’re a regular reader of my blog, then I hope you haven’t suffered any withdrawal symptoms from the absence of more regular postings over the last couple of weeks. For all I know you could have been using my ramblings as an aid to sleep anyway: among the suggestions for getting back off to sleep after a tough night is to read a book or some other not too stimulating material for a while. If this is you, I hope it doesn’t reflect a boring writing style on my part! I’ve written a bit about radio again this time because I know many of my readers are dear friends in the British DX Club. It’s time I pay them and my favourite hobby some homage anew.
BDXC has been the source of my most enduring and rewarding friendships for nearly thirty years now. As in life, people come and people go from our club, but we now have around 500 members around the world. That is part of the wonderful bond which a radio set and a postage stamp fostered long before the World Wide Web was even a glimmer in the mind of Tim Berners-Lee, recently ennobled belatedly for his development of this wonderfully accessible medium of the internet. I know I have friends out there who care about what is happening in my life, my sorrows, triumphs and challenges, just as much as I care about theirs. One friend welcomed a new life into the world this Tuesday for instance, so hi to Jonathan Michael Guy up there in sunny Stockport! Maybe Mum and Dad are having to rely on the radio for company as they stay awake with their new bundle of joy right now.
Just as life has its joys, though, it also has its sorrows which sooner or later we all have to face in one form or another. There is a lot of truth in the saying “a trouble shared is a trouble halved”- or perhaps if a radio agony uncle or aunt is involved, maybe the fraction would be even smaller! I certainly had times in the traumas of teenagerdom when I was tempted to rush to Raeburn (Anna) for my solace.
However, everybody goes through changes. It’s a part of life, but not an easy part at times. Although part of the fun of being in a radio club is knowing what is out there to hear and sharing it, everyone will hear it with a different, unique pair of ears and eyes. Their brain will receive the information signals, be they speech or music, coming out of the radio speaker or headphones and process it in a way which is theirs alone. This is where the world of ideas, creativity, thought and even spiritual inspiration start. It's also where, when having trouble processing the incoming signal, as if through a mush of radio noise, undue anxiety and frustration can start.
It is through a radio friendship that the most important relationship in my life, with Jesus Christ, was re-kindled twenty years ago this month, and it is to that relationship that I am having to look for comfort, solace, guidance, wisdom and freedom from anxiety at the present time when even friends can't provide all the answers or cheer. Again I face the prospect of a loved one with a possibly life-limiting illness (for real this time). If she were still on air, I’m afraid Anna Raeburn alone could not offer an answer for this one. Even Esther Rantzen would have to say That’s Life!. With all it’s joys and sorrows, life is a beautiful but occasionally painful mystery- yet which I firmly believe for those who trust in Our Lord will carry on forever even when that fantastic signal which is our own ID has long faded into the ether. We look to the radio as our audio beach if you like, but we all have to face the turn of the tide at some point in our lives and the cloud which dominates the skyline here in my family home of 44 years reflects the mood of the moment in my heart. I would far rather be visiting the seaside studios of Radio Platja d’Aro in Catalonia, as I did in February 1985 than hospital bedsides or sitting here in Feltham, unemployed and having to face difficult decisions on behalf of my loved ones. Then as now, I know though that God is full of surprises and there is nothing wrong with hoping for a miracle, even praying for it or the next best thing, even when the chances of extended transmissions seem slim.
My visit to the former accommodation address of a pirate (somebody please post me a reminder of which one!) was made after “gatecrashing” the holiday of two BDXC friends,
But the music goes round and round and it comes out here! It may have been written with the phonograph in mind, but it is just as applicable to the radio. Unlike the tides and the torrents all too clearly seen in Winter 2004/5, the unseen radio wave can bring a tsunami of blessings into the home and into the heart. Just recently, I have valued even more such gems as Prayer for the Day, Pause for Thought and especially the Daily Service. Somehow, through the broadcast word and favourite hymns I have been able to see God at work, and thus I have seen hope for the moment and for the future. It’s extraordinary how just hearing the tune of "What a Friend We Have In Jesus" can indeed bring comfort- even when it is in the clever adaptation by Alan Price – heard on Heartbeat over Christmas- of this Victorian hymn which I referred to earlier. Everybody is going through changes all the time- to change is to grow, it is said.
The radio scene has changed immeasurably since I joined BDXC in 1976, and now the club itself is changing this year with Chris Brand moving into the editorial hot seat to succeed Tony Rogers, who has decided to step down from the reins of Communication this Spring after an incredible two decades. It will be interesting to see what changes happen, and what stays the same. What we can take on board from the past, and what we can bring to the club with the best of the present, for the future. Whatever happens, I am sure the club will stay lively, and my prayer is it will become even more friendly.
This is my prayer too for life, my own and that of my friends and loved ones, whose own worries are not unknown to me even as I grappel with my own. Another favourite hymn comes to mind: Amazing Grace: How Sweet the Sound. Where there is life, there is hope- and where there is hope, there is God.
.. UNASHAMED PLUG TIME..For anyone within reach of Reading, Berkshire, a reminder that this weekend sees the re-launch of the long-running Reading International Radio Group meetings at a new venue in the town. More details in the diary section at www.bdxc.org.uk . Hoping to catch up with some of you there, but otherwise I will do my best to post here again soon. Keep visiting regularly to check for updates, but please bear with me if I’m not so verbose for a while or if I appear a little sombre in tone. And if you’re a praying person, God bless you brother or sister- please add the family Savage to your list!
Sunday, 23 January 2005
Winter Words
It's Sunday again, the first day of the week- not the last. This is often forgotten; I heard something recently about a campaign to get calendar makers to recognise this. Quite right too! Memory is vital to us all, and what more important thing can there be to remember than the rest period in the creation of the world. For rest it is: it might be challenging and difficult for many to see it today, but God is still at work in the world in every creative or productive act, every gesture of love and compassion, every smile and every tear.
There is a lot of the latter going on in both world events at the moment and also my own life. At least, I have felt like crying quite a bit over the last week or so. Although I try to make these blogs an open expression of my own thoughts and feelings, some are not easy to express in a public medium even though sharing and "getting it off your chest" can help so much, I find. If you're one of my close friends, spare a prayer as you read these thoughts today and if you are a regular reader, you'll maybe understand why I have not been quite so prolific with my writing this week.
My dear Mum, who God willing will be eighty in just under three weeks, was admitted to the local hospital on the 14th January, following a stroke. This was on top of a period of vague ill health and an infection. While the infection has cleared up and there is no problem with temperature, pulse or respiration, the stroke has left her with the distressing and frustrating condition of dysphasia- commonly called aphasia though not strictly correctly. This means that she has erratic difficulty in communicating. On top of this, she has a weakness in her right arm as well as the generalised mobility difficulties she has increasingly had for some years.
It's not until you see someone having difficulty communicating, that you realise how much we take it for granted in our daily, adult lives. Like so much else though, it is a learned skill. Theoretically at least, it can be re-learned when the part of the brain affected by stroke or other disease is afflicted. But it also takes patience, something less easy for some of us to learn, I guess.
Yesterday afternoon, I visited with my brother, having in the week gone over earlier in the afternoon by myself. On Friday, I actually found Mum quite cheerful and positive. She was smiling and managing to get by with her words most of the time. She was most thankful for a particular friendship and even phoned that friend. I felt more positive and hopeful for her. Unfortunately, it was less so yesterday. It was a struggle to understand what she was trying to get across. Apparently, people with dysphasia have no intellectual impairment and can think normally- how cruel it seems that they cannot share clearly their thoughts with their loved ones and friends through the spoken word.
HERE IS THE MUSE
The spoken word, fortunately perhaps, is not the same as the thought word. Even if lack of language skills prevents us getting across what we long to say to others, we can still dwell in our private world and think and enjoy the world. This was a point made by the preacher at Christ Church this morning, who is one of the old school. He much prefers his Authorised Version of the Bible to the modern translations; I did not press him on what he thinks of the fidelity of contemporary versions.
400-year old language can sound strange to modern ears, but there is a timelessness in God's word which overcame this. The preacher delivered a helpful and uplifting message, and his choice of hymns brought some of the comfort and peace I needed this morning, even though I did not really feel I could get it from the congregation. Now if only they still wrote words like "What a Friend We Have In Jesus". How true, and to love and be loved by him transcends words alone.
THE FROZEN NORTH (AMERICA0
We're basking in a relative heat wave here in Middlesex today, compared to the Eastern Seeboard of North America where blizzards have caused the closure of many of the continent's major airports and the cancellation of flights both ways across the great pond. The forecasters could have seen this coming on Thursday, when George Dubya was inaugarated for his second term of four years. Whether the next years can bring a thawing of the frosty relations between the rest of the world and the US, who knows. I wouldn't wish icy cold on anyone, but there is a kind of satisfaction about the greatest power on earth being brought low by a great power above earth, the winter weather. That's one thing which all humanity shares and which no wars have yet tamed.
There is a lot of the latter going on in both world events at the moment and also my own life. At least, I have felt like crying quite a bit over the last week or so. Although I try to make these blogs an open expression of my own thoughts and feelings, some are not easy to express in a public medium even though sharing and "getting it off your chest" can help so much, I find. If you're one of my close friends, spare a prayer as you read these thoughts today and if you are a regular reader, you'll maybe understand why I have not been quite so prolific with my writing this week.
My dear Mum, who God willing will be eighty in just under three weeks, was admitted to the local hospital on the 14th January, following a stroke. This was on top of a period of vague ill health and an infection. While the infection has cleared up and there is no problem with temperature, pulse or respiration, the stroke has left her with the distressing and frustrating condition of dysphasia- commonly called aphasia though not strictly correctly. This means that she has erratic difficulty in communicating. On top of this, she has a weakness in her right arm as well as the generalised mobility difficulties she has increasingly had for some years.
It's not until you see someone having difficulty communicating, that you realise how much we take it for granted in our daily, adult lives. Like so much else though, it is a learned skill. Theoretically at least, it can be re-learned when the part of the brain affected by stroke or other disease is afflicted. But it also takes patience, something less easy for some of us to learn, I guess.
Yesterday afternoon, I visited with my brother, having in the week gone over earlier in the afternoon by myself. On Friday, I actually found Mum quite cheerful and positive. She was smiling and managing to get by with her words most of the time. She was most thankful for a particular friendship and even phoned that friend. I felt more positive and hopeful for her. Unfortunately, it was less so yesterday. It was a struggle to understand what she was trying to get across. Apparently, people with dysphasia have no intellectual impairment and can think normally- how cruel it seems that they cannot share clearly their thoughts with their loved ones and friends through the spoken word.
HERE IS THE MUSE
The spoken word, fortunately perhaps, is not the same as the thought word. Even if lack of language skills prevents us getting across what we long to say to others, we can still dwell in our private world and think and enjoy the world. This was a point made by the preacher at Christ Church this morning, who is one of the old school. He much prefers his Authorised Version of the Bible to the modern translations; I did not press him on what he thinks of the fidelity of contemporary versions.
400-year old language can sound strange to modern ears, but there is a timelessness in God's word which overcame this. The preacher delivered a helpful and uplifting message, and his choice of hymns brought some of the comfort and peace I needed this morning, even though I did not really feel I could get it from the congregation. Now if only they still wrote words like "What a Friend We Have In Jesus". How true, and to love and be loved by him transcends words alone.
THE FROZEN NORTH (AMERICA0
We're basking in a relative heat wave here in Middlesex today, compared to the Eastern Seeboard of North America where blizzards have caused the closure of many of the continent's major airports and the cancellation of flights both ways across the great pond. The forecasters could have seen this coming on Thursday, when George Dubya was inaugarated for his second term of four years. Whether the next years can bring a thawing of the frosty relations between the rest of the world and the US, who knows. I wouldn't wish icy cold on anyone, but there is a kind of satisfaction about the greatest power on earth being brought low by a great power above earth, the winter weather. That's one thing which all humanity shares and which no wars have yet tamed.
Saturday, 15 January 2005
Cry God for England, Harry, and Sanity Gorge
Oh dear, a mini royal's upset the applecart again in a big way, thanks to too much exposure to that gleaming example of tabloid behaviour (not), The Sun
It's open season again, it seems, for public figures to be the object of villification and public humiliation in the media. The continuing human cost of nature's most awful actions in the Far East has given way to a globally-reported revulsion about the third in line to the UK throne making an extremely bad choice of costume for a private party. Prince Harry was the headline-maker this week, in the wake of Thursday's picture of him wearing a Nazi uniform to a "natives and colonials" fancy dress bash last Saturday.
Now I hope I have a reasoned but sensible approach to the legacy of history. If I didn't, I guess no sane academics would ever have awarded me an A' Level and a degree which both included much study of the horrors of Nazism. I've also studied my fair share of the vile behaviour of unelected figures of authority- viewed from today's perspective- at many times in British life through the centuries. But, like respected columnist Simon Jenkins speaking on the Today programme yesterday, I can't help but think that sanity is leaking away in the coverage this story is receiving and indeed it is not being kept in proportion. As Jenkins points out, it is the same sort of attitude which haunts our "compensation culture" which seems to have so vilely been imported from the former colonies (ironic reference intentional!).
The "final solution" of Nazism was an aberration, a despicable act of a madman's regime which even sixty years later it is hard to believe could ever happen. We said it must never happen again, yet it did in Rwanda, Cambodia and in countless other equally repressive regimes to this day. Rightly,though,commemorations and coverage this January are focussing on the anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz, the death camp most committed to collective memory as an example of the worst excesses of human hatred and scapegoating. The camp now stands still, and properly, as a memorial of an estimated 2 million acts of barbarity against Jews and others, which sane minds can scarcely conceive as man-made.
Be that as it may, the extent of the atrocity does not justify the acres of newsprint consumed in the stone-throwing at an, admittedly privileged, boy barely out of his teens for an error of judgment and perhaps the failure of his post-war eyes to appreciate the strength of feeling his choice of costume would provoke. Even without the counsels of Trinnie and Susannah, he ought to have known what not to wear, but all 20 year olds do silly things and make mistakes their elders might not. It's part of the process of growing up. We say and do daft things before the process of maturity causes us to think better of it.
Let's bring a bit of logic into this. Harry was wearing a uniform representing a period in history, but unfortunately for him the history of living memory. Would there have been the same fuss though if he had come dressed as one of the army of Genghis Khan, Atilla the Hun, Ivan the Terrible, or any other equally brutal figure from the distant past?
Most wearers of Nazi uniform were professional or conscripted soliders, just like our own armies who had to face up to the reality of ending other human lives in the course of war. I hate war, it's despicable, but it's a reality and seemingly part of our human condition. Even Jesus Christ said "you will hear of wars, and rumours of wars". Offensive though the Swastika is, and the ideas it stands for, of itself it stems from a much earlier period of history. Symbols of themselves are harmless: it is the use and association that is made of them that causes so much grief and suffering.
Soldiers fighting in the theatre of war in Nazi uniform, according to the conventions of war, were not the same as those who mercilessly slaughtered innocent fellow human beings in gas chambers in Central Europe. They may well have been as oblivious to the "final solution" as the allies claimed to have been to the atrocities of Auschwitz, Belsen and others. The uniform of itself is not what gives offence, it is the associations.
As I have echoed many a time in this blog of late, all human life is precious and deserves dignity. Whether the number involved is 2 or 2 million, to wear any uniform connected with slaughter in time of war will be offensive to some- as offensive as Harry joining the British Army maybe as he is due to soon. It's been said that few other lads of Harry's age would choose to wear a Nazi uniform, but then it's probably only these "aristobrats" as one writer memorably called them this morning who would dream of having a "Natives and Colonials" party.
For sake of consistency, I know I have to justify these opinions against my distaste to the portrayal of Jesus in the Jerry Springer "opera" last week on BBC TWO- which continues to cause controversy even after transmission. That led even to the very public resignation of a committed Christian producer at BBC Radio Three this week. But we are dealing here with matters of the head and the heart, not the swastika. What does Prince Harry actually think of the Nazis and the ideas they stood for? Does he even understand or know about them, or is he as ignorant of them as so many in our society are today of the equally brutal but world-changing events of the death of Jesus?
If Harry is a closet Nazi, we need to be concerned and rightly so about his political views. But is anyone seriously suggesting that? If not, then his bad choice of party attire- I can't help thinking of the tale of the Emperor's New Clothes here- is no more a serious news story than if he'd played Herod in a school nativity. There are far more important, pressing and enduring issues in the world to deal with than the antics of an adolescent scion of an heir presumptive. Maybe the world's press should instead be focussing on a comedian portaying a woman vicar, aiming to "make poverty history", which got minimal exposure on Thursday thanks to Sun-stroke. Isn't that what really
matters?
It's open season again, it seems, for public figures to be the object of villification and public humiliation in the media. The continuing human cost of nature's most awful actions in the Far East has given way to a globally-reported revulsion about the third in line to the UK throne making an extremely bad choice of costume for a private party. Prince Harry was the headline-maker this week, in the wake of Thursday's picture of him wearing a Nazi uniform to a "natives and colonials" fancy dress bash last Saturday.
Now I hope I have a reasoned but sensible approach to the legacy of history. If I didn't, I guess no sane academics would ever have awarded me an A' Level and a degree which both included much study of the horrors of Nazism. I've also studied my fair share of the vile behaviour of unelected figures of authority- viewed from today's perspective- at many times in British life through the centuries. But, like respected columnist Simon Jenkins speaking on the Today programme yesterday, I can't help but think that sanity is leaking away in the coverage this story is receiving and indeed it is not being kept in proportion. As Jenkins points out, it is the same sort of attitude which haunts our "compensation culture" which seems to have so vilely been imported from the former colonies (ironic reference intentional!).
The "final solution" of Nazism was an aberration, a despicable act of a madman's regime which even sixty years later it is hard to believe could ever happen. We said it must never happen again, yet it did in Rwanda, Cambodia and in countless other equally repressive regimes to this day. Rightly,though,commemorations and coverage this January are focussing on the anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz, the death camp most committed to collective memory as an example of the worst excesses of human hatred and scapegoating. The camp now stands still, and properly, as a memorial of an estimated 2 million acts of barbarity against Jews and others, which sane minds can scarcely conceive as man-made.
Be that as it may, the extent of the atrocity does not justify the acres of newsprint consumed in the stone-throwing at an, admittedly privileged, boy barely out of his teens for an error of judgment and perhaps the failure of his post-war eyes to appreciate the strength of feeling his choice of costume would provoke. Even without the counsels of Trinnie and Susannah, he ought to have known what not to wear, but all 20 year olds do silly things and make mistakes their elders might not. It's part of the process of growing up. We say and do daft things before the process of maturity causes us to think better of it.
Let's bring a bit of logic into this. Harry was wearing a uniform representing a period in history, but unfortunately for him the history of living memory. Would there have been the same fuss though if he had come dressed as one of the army of Genghis Khan, Atilla the Hun, Ivan the Terrible, or any other equally brutal figure from the distant past?
Most wearers of Nazi uniform were professional or conscripted soliders, just like our own armies who had to face up to the reality of ending other human lives in the course of war. I hate war, it's despicable, but it's a reality and seemingly part of our human condition. Even Jesus Christ said "you will hear of wars, and rumours of wars". Offensive though the Swastika is, and the ideas it stands for, of itself it stems from a much earlier period of history. Symbols of themselves are harmless: it is the use and association that is made of them that causes so much grief and suffering.
Soldiers fighting in the theatre of war in Nazi uniform, according to the conventions of war, were not the same as those who mercilessly slaughtered innocent fellow human beings in gas chambers in Central Europe. They may well have been as oblivious to the "final solution" as the allies claimed to have been to the atrocities of Auschwitz, Belsen and others. The uniform of itself is not what gives offence, it is the associations.
As I have echoed many a time in this blog of late, all human life is precious and deserves dignity. Whether the number involved is 2 or 2 million, to wear any uniform connected with slaughter in time of war will be offensive to some- as offensive as Harry joining the British Army maybe as he is due to soon. It's been said that few other lads of Harry's age would choose to wear a Nazi uniform, but then it's probably only these "aristobrats" as one writer memorably called them this morning who would dream of having a "Natives and Colonials" party.
For sake of consistency, I know I have to justify these opinions against my distaste to the portrayal of Jesus in the Jerry Springer "opera" last week on BBC TWO- which continues to cause controversy even after transmission. That led even to the very public resignation of a committed Christian producer at BBC Radio Three this week. But we are dealing here with matters of the head and the heart, not the swastika. What does Prince Harry actually think of the Nazis and the ideas they stood for? Does he even understand or know about them, or is he as ignorant of them as so many in our society are today of the equally brutal but world-changing events of the death of Jesus?
If Harry is a closet Nazi, we need to be concerned and rightly so about his political views. But is anyone seriously suggesting that? If not, then his bad choice of party attire- I can't help thinking of the tale of the Emperor's New Clothes here- is no more a serious news story than if he'd played Herod in a school nativity. There are far more important, pressing and enduring issues in the world to deal with than the antics of an adolescent scion of an heir presumptive. Maybe the world's press should instead be focussing on a comedian portaying a woman vicar, aiming to "make poverty history", which got minimal exposure on Thursday thanks to Sun-stroke. Isn't that what really
matters?
Wednesday, 12 January 2005
Word Processing vs Wood Processing
Latest Word Processing
Who says the Germans have no sense of humour? Click on the title above for the link to this site, which is fun stuff indeed. It's a very cleverly worked out if badly translated piece by someone at the world's biggest pencil maker, Faber-Castell. Today's Blue Peter featured one of those fascinating "how it's made" films at the writing instrument maker's factory in Germany and very interesting it was too.
You learn something new every time from this programme: I discovered tonight you need no longer be concerned about the health risks of chewing your pencil pensively Yes, I know- pun intended, or should that be pen intended?. It seems that "lead" pencils never have been made of that metal: pencils are, and always have been, made from a mixture of graphite and china clay. This does look very like lead though, so after they were first mistaken for lead items, the name stuck. Faber-Castell's pencils come in over 120 colours (the 'lead' core that is) and they are about as environmentally friendly as you can get. Each pencil's outer casing is made from cedarwood, but a new tree is planted for each one chopped down.
I hope the same can be said in the forests from whence came the two most famous festive firs in the land which also put in an appearance on today's "BP", but sadly now denuded of their Christmastime splendour. The programme featured the dismantling of both the Trafalgar Square tree- Norway's annual gift to Britain this year used energy efficient bulbs, apparently- and the premier tree, or should that be Premier's tree, outside Number 10, Downing Street. Both of these got their come-downance with a little help from Simon as sawyer, and were then carted off in a van to make mulch for the Blue Peter garden.
However, a peek at the famous Shepherd's Bush green oasis this evening made me wonder: what will be its fate when the BBC moves it's children's output to Manchester in five years time? Will the statue of dear old Petra the dog, and the grave of George the tortoise, go unloved, unvisited and untended? And what of the Millennium Tree, planted in 1971 when I were but a lad of 12? It has stood the test of time somewhat better than the time capsule planted beneath it, which when retrieved was found to have rotted! I think we should be told, and the governors ought to have a serious re-think at this proposed assault on our televisual heritage.
MANCHESTER'S MAGNIFICENT MONUMENT
Certainly there are no such worries in "Madchester" this evening, as the biggest sculpture in Britain is officially unveiled outside the home of the Commonwealth Games back in 2002, the City of Manchester Stadium. It's probably about the only piece of shiny metal the current tenants of the stadium are likely to see for a while mind, as I can't remember the last time Man City beat their illustrious local rivals at Old Trafford to the honour of FA Cup champions, let alone any other trophies.
The "B of the Bang" is the somewhat bizarrely named monument to the games which has been designed and built largely at public expense, as part of the regeneration of East Mancehster. It now claims the honour of Britain's tallest sculpture at 56 metres tall- dwarfing even Anthony Gormley's "Angel of the North", though surely Nelson's column and the Monument in the capital must have a place there somewhere too? The new sculpture will be illuminated at night, and gets its peculiar name from one time athletic champion Linford Christie. During a race commentary in the 2002 Commonwealth Games, he apparently referred to "the b of the bang", that moment when the fastest sprinters get off their blocks as the starting gun fires- a mere millisecond if their reactions are as they should be. The "B of the Bang" is a visual attempt therefore at representing something which is largely aural, a giant permanent commemorative "explosion" above Sport City in the heart of the North West.
Buried somewhere inside the statue is also a time capsule, but this one is not due to be opened for another 300 years. It contains work including, no doubt, a few pencil drawings from local schoolchildren. I hope it is better looked after than the BP capsule, but I don't expect to be around to see this one opened again, or at least not this side of the way of all flesh and indeed all trees, eventually.
LIME LAMENT
The antiquity of many trees is a truly humbling reminder of the brevity of one's own life, but also of the continuity and history of our nation. In several of the churchyards in this part of the country, there are yew trees believed to be over 900 years old, some even pre-dating the Norman Conquest. Such great giants of arborial splendour have even attracted enough awe to have books written about them: although I have not yet bought it, I recommend Meetings with Remarkable Trees.
But even the stoutest of trees is vulnerable to the extremes of the British climate, which can be just as dangerous and fatal as the waves which carried off so many precious souls in South Asia seventeen days ago. The scale of damage and the loss of life may be smaller, but nevertheless the sea is a fearsome foe and the wind a well-armed warrior. Scotland and Northern Ireland are now recovering from a battering these past couple of days which is the worst for a decade, and has claimed at least three lives. The whole of the Scottish rail network has been closed as a result, thousands are without power and in the border country around Hexham, fresh water is still being delivered from bowsers because of this climatic chaos.
Further south, we've mercifully escaped the worst of the winds this time, in stark contrast to October 1987 when "The Great Storm" wrought such destruction in Southern England. However, one tree which survived that onslaught has not fared so well this time, and the famous Lime tree in the middle of Kent County Cricket Club's ground in Canterbury is no more. Or at least, it is only a stump, lost in a night of windy pounding over the weekend. I don't know off-hand who it was that said "I think that I shall never see, a poem lovely as a tree", indeed I'm not even sure I've got the quote right, but it is very true. Not only are trees our essential air filters, they're also quite remarkable in their power to inspire, to shelter and to even be a focus of private passion poured out publicly. A million carved love hearts bear testimony to that.
Where trees and lives differ though is that it is an easy matter to replant a tree. Sevenoaks in Kent may have been demoted to One Oak for a brief period after the '87 "hurricane", but new saplings and growth soon replaced it. If only it were such an easy matter to restore life, in all its tender beauty, to devastated communities who have lost mother, father, brother, sister... the list goes on. But somehow in all the horrors which nature can throw at humanity, life DOES go on and people overcome even the most traumatic, unimaginable, painful losses. The human spirit has a strength, a beauty and a splendour more awe-inspiring and unique than even the tallest tree, the most splendid sculpture or the brightest lights. It cannot be extinguished or destroyed because it is made in the image of the One who has no age, no dimensions or limitations of time and space, and yet beats with the heart of the universe. The human spirit is more magnificent than any of these things because it is powered by the fuel which is more energy-efficient than any hydrocarbon. The human spirit is made to run forever on a four-letter word- love. That love seemed dead when it was mercilessly slaughtered on the crude wood of an ancient tree in Jerusalem- but Jesus, love personified, rose again. Thanks to him, now all who would accept his generous gift can enjoy breath-taking life and a place in eternity. Can any medal, monument or moment beat that?
Who says the Germans have no sense of humour? Click on the title above for the link to this site, which is fun stuff indeed. It's a very cleverly worked out if badly translated piece by someone at the world's biggest pencil maker, Faber-Castell. Today's Blue Peter featured one of those fascinating "how it's made" films at the writing instrument maker's factory in Germany and very interesting it was too.
You learn something new every time from this programme: I discovered tonight you need no longer be concerned about the health risks of chewing your pencil pensively Yes, I know- pun intended, or should that be pen intended?. It seems that "lead" pencils never have been made of that metal: pencils are, and always have been, made from a mixture of graphite and china clay. This does look very like lead though, so after they were first mistaken for lead items, the name stuck. Faber-Castell's pencils come in over 120 colours (the 'lead' core that is) and they are about as environmentally friendly as you can get. Each pencil's outer casing is made from cedarwood, but a new tree is planted for each one chopped down.
I hope the same can be said in the forests from whence came the two most famous festive firs in the land which also put in an appearance on today's "BP", but sadly now denuded of their Christmastime splendour. The programme featured the dismantling of both the Trafalgar Square tree- Norway's annual gift to Britain this year used energy efficient bulbs, apparently- and the premier tree, or should that be Premier's tree, outside Number 10, Downing Street. Both of these got their come-downance with a little help from Simon as sawyer, and were then carted off in a van to make mulch for the Blue Peter garden.
However, a peek at the famous Shepherd's Bush green oasis this evening made me wonder: what will be its fate when the BBC moves it's children's output to Manchester in five years time? Will the statue of dear old Petra the dog, and the grave of George the tortoise, go unloved, unvisited and untended? And what of the Millennium Tree, planted in 1971 when I were but a lad of 12? It has stood the test of time somewhat better than the time capsule planted beneath it, which when retrieved was found to have rotted! I think we should be told, and the governors ought to have a serious re-think at this proposed assault on our televisual heritage.
MANCHESTER'S MAGNIFICENT MONUMENT
Certainly there are no such worries in "Madchester" this evening, as the biggest sculpture in Britain is officially unveiled outside the home of the Commonwealth Games back in 2002, the City of Manchester Stadium. It's probably about the only piece of shiny metal the current tenants of the stadium are likely to see for a while mind, as I can't remember the last time Man City beat their illustrious local rivals at Old Trafford to the honour of FA Cup champions, let alone any other trophies.
The "B of the Bang" is the somewhat bizarrely named monument to the games which has been designed and built largely at public expense, as part of the regeneration of East Mancehster. It now claims the honour of Britain's tallest sculpture at 56 metres tall- dwarfing even Anthony Gormley's "Angel of the North", though surely Nelson's column and the Monument in the capital must have a place there somewhere too? The new sculpture will be illuminated at night, and gets its peculiar name from one time athletic champion Linford Christie. During a race commentary in the 2002 Commonwealth Games, he apparently referred to "the b of the bang", that moment when the fastest sprinters get off their blocks as the starting gun fires- a mere millisecond if their reactions are as they should be. The "B of the Bang" is a visual attempt therefore at representing something which is largely aural, a giant permanent commemorative "explosion" above Sport City in the heart of the North West.
Buried somewhere inside the statue is also a time capsule, but this one is not due to be opened for another 300 years. It contains work including, no doubt, a few pencil drawings from local schoolchildren. I hope it is better looked after than the BP capsule, but I don't expect to be around to see this one opened again, or at least not this side of the way of all flesh and indeed all trees, eventually.
LIME LAMENT
The antiquity of many trees is a truly humbling reminder of the brevity of one's own life, but also of the continuity and history of our nation. In several of the churchyards in this part of the country, there are yew trees believed to be over 900 years old, some even pre-dating the Norman Conquest. Such great giants of arborial splendour have even attracted enough awe to have books written about them: although I have not yet bought it, I recommend Meetings with Remarkable Trees.
But even the stoutest of trees is vulnerable to the extremes of the British climate, which can be just as dangerous and fatal as the waves which carried off so many precious souls in South Asia seventeen days ago. The scale of damage and the loss of life may be smaller, but nevertheless the sea is a fearsome foe and the wind a well-armed warrior. Scotland and Northern Ireland are now recovering from a battering these past couple of days which is the worst for a decade, and has claimed at least three lives. The whole of the Scottish rail network has been closed as a result, thousands are without power and in the border country around Hexham, fresh water is still being delivered from bowsers because of this climatic chaos.
Further south, we've mercifully escaped the worst of the winds this time, in stark contrast to October 1987 when "The Great Storm" wrought such destruction in Southern England. However, one tree which survived that onslaught has not fared so well this time, and the famous Lime tree in the middle of Kent County Cricket Club's ground in Canterbury is no more. Or at least, it is only a stump, lost in a night of windy pounding over the weekend. I don't know off-hand who it was that said "I think that I shall never see, a poem lovely as a tree", indeed I'm not even sure I've got the quote right, but it is very true. Not only are trees our essential air filters, they're also quite remarkable in their power to inspire, to shelter and to even be a focus of private passion poured out publicly. A million carved love hearts bear testimony to that.
Where trees and lives differ though is that it is an easy matter to replant a tree. Sevenoaks in Kent may have been demoted to One Oak for a brief period after the '87 "hurricane", but new saplings and growth soon replaced it. If only it were such an easy matter to restore life, in all its tender beauty, to devastated communities who have lost mother, father, brother, sister... the list goes on. But somehow in all the horrors which nature can throw at humanity, life DOES go on and people overcome even the most traumatic, unimaginable, painful losses. The human spirit has a strength, a beauty and a splendour more awe-inspiring and unique than even the tallest tree, the most splendid sculpture or the brightest lights. It cannot be extinguished or destroyed because it is made in the image of the One who has no age, no dimensions or limitations of time and space, and yet beats with the heart of the universe. The human spirit is more magnificent than any of these things because it is powered by the fuel which is more energy-efficient than any hydrocarbon. The human spirit is made to run forever on a four-letter word- love. That love seemed dead when it was mercilessly slaughtered on the crude wood of an ancient tree in Jerusalem- but Jesus, love personified, rose again. Thanks to him, now all who would accept his generous gift can enjoy breath-taking life and a place in eternity. Can any medal, monument or moment beat that?
Saturday, 8 January 2005
Grumpy Old Mark?
My first Saturday of 2005 in Eastbourne, so I couldn't resist my traditional cooked breakfast in a local store- in today's case T J Hughes which now occupies the old Army and Navy site. Their Dome restaurant is a lovely piece of architecture too: I was admiring some of the plaster mouldings around the place today while I munched on my hash browns and some rather tasty sausages. Didn't have my favoured sea view today though, which was a pity as it was a lovely bright day, albeit very windy. Eastbourne has escaped lightly, mind you: in the North, the city of Carlisle has been completely cut off by the effects of 90mph winds and flooding and there is damage and disruption everywhere. This I guess may garner more news coverage tonight than the far East, but still the events of a fortnight ago can never be far from people's thoughts and concern.
After brekky, I couldn't resist another spot of bookshop browsing. There are few finer free pleasures for me than pottering round literary emporia, and my choice this morning was the Eastbourne branch of Waterstones. I didn't actually buy anything though, unlike last Saturday when I spent New Year's Day afternoon having a bit of a spree in their three storey Richmond upon Thames store. The Eastbourne branch is much smaller, but no less enticing.
It's amazing what some people can sell a book on: among the delights on offer in their half price sale (necessarily copied by most of the other book retailers in town at present too) is one called "Britain's Best Roundabouts"! Allegedly inspired by the scenes of a previously-unassuming gyratory in Slough now made world-famous by The Office, I gather.
I was puzzled though by the placing of another of Christmas's big sellers- though you wouldn't think so by the discounted remaindering in the sale. It seems "Grumpy Old Men" bear two faces: one with mugshots of various celebs and the BBC logo, but alongside a different cover confusingly with the same title, broadly the same format and about the same size. At first, I wondered if this was due to a hasty reprint having John Peel's face taken off the dust jacket, but then given the books of homage also released in honour of the much-missed broadcaster before Christmas that seems unlikely. No, it appears there is a counterfeit grump at work with his own "manual" purporting to be official. Very strange- I shall have to investigate.
Both books are selling at the same price and cover the same territory, but if you ask me it's downright plagiarism. Now there is far too much of that at work in our society today I think, and it's why we're going to the dogs. Nobody has any originality any more, it's all regurgitating the same old rubbish and you just don't get the masterpieces you used to. All these chaps need to do is fire up their word processor and let it churn out words- it takes no effort at all. That's not great literature, it's pap.
OK, maybe my tongue is planted firmly in my cheek for that last paragraph for the sake of effect, but I am raising a serious point. Certainly when it comes to TV there is far too much insulting rubbish on at the moment. As I type this late on Saturday evening, I've had to turn the telly off, because both of our main BBC channels are broadcasting nothing but foul mouthed obscenities and in the case of BBC TWO, allegedly, even blasphemy-though at least there is no Celebrity Big Bro on at the moment.
The BBC- or "Blasphemous Broadcasting Corporation" as one Christian group has now dubbed it- have gone ahead with the showing of the TV version of the West End stage "hit" Jerry Springer-the Opera despite a record number of pre-transmission complaints to their own contact centres, and to Ofcom which has acquired the broadcasting standards and complaints functions of the previous commissions, supposedly. I say supposedly because it seems that Ofcom is a bit of a toothless wonder: they can only act on complaints post-transmission. This is ridiculous and pointless; as has much been pointed out over the last few days, it is rather like locking the stable door after the horse has bolted.
As for BBC ONE, their contribution to Saturday night "entertainment" is to show the last part of Billy Connolly's "World Tour of New Zealand". This is a programme which can't quite decide what it is trying to be. It could, potentially, have been a very interesting and watchable travelogue with the Big Yin travelling across the two islands down under on his Harley and stopping at some very interesting places along the way while discovering local culture. OK, Michael Palin he isn't, but it would still be an entertaining travelogue for those of us who'll maybe never make a 13K mile trip to the other side of the world to see it for ourselves.
But unfortunately, that's not good enough for the producers of this good story spoilt. They have to pepper it with footage of Mr Pamela Stephenson's live tours in the land of the Maori, and these as has come to be expected are littered with expletives which, quite frankly, add little to the potential humour of the stories Connolly tells. Why has the f-word seemingly become such an essential part of so-called "comedy" routines on the live circuit these days? The fact it is heard so much in the street speech of young people particularly does not mean it of necessity has to be repeated on the live stage, nor is it any the less offensive for its repeated useage among those who've no respect for their unwitting audience.
There are perfectly good, indeed hilarious and clever word plays and side-splitting tales to be made out of our language without needing to resort to the basest of Anglo-Saxon terminology. To name but one chap who's an expert at it, do try and catch The Very World of Milton Jones next time it is on Radio Four. Mr Jones is apparently a Christian, but this does not stop him and nor should it, from some amazing word play, bizarre situations and compulsive comedy which is suitable for all the family without being anodyne.
Tim Vine of ITV's The Sketch Show is another Christian who is brilliant at clever but inoffensive humour too. We need more of his ilk, but I doubt anyone can ever match the sheer genius of that oversized clown who has been voted the best comedian of all time, the late great Tommy Cooper, sometime resident of Eastbourne. Still much missed, Tommy never relied on a blue routine in his life, but twenty years after his death sells DVDs by the thousand simply because of his sense of fun and being able to poke fun at himself rather than others unable to defend themselves. A true professional.
Watching live theatre is one thing: grown adults can choose to go and see "adult" humour or "innovative" material featuring the language of the sewer if they so choose. I never would, personally. But to inflict it on licence payers with the obsequious "you can always use the off switch" is to miss the point. There is a world of difference between making a personal choice to pay to see something, than having no choice in what a public service broadcaster chooses to fill Saturday night screens with. Where did this permissiveness creep in exactly, and why? Everyone is at it now, it seems- from Jonathan Ross to the whole of the "They Think It's All Over" team. It's un-necessary, it's smut and in the case of a programme parodying Jesus Christ it is also deeply offensive to people of the Christian faith. And yet, if anybody dared say such things against other faiths, needless to say there is uproar.
Of course, there has to be a balance. In a free society, among people of free will, you can't ban these things altogether, but that does not mean you can't be responsible in how they are displayed, particularly on a freely available public medium. In any case, some might argue that the abuse- which the producers claim is more satire than deliberate offence, and even the star David Soul says he is a Christian- is as nothing compared to the abuse, scourging and deliberate brutality actually inflicted on Jesus before his shameless crucifixion. That may be so, but it does not justify the portrayal of him, whether or not it is actually as claimed when screened. I guess I shall never know, as I have no intention of even deigning to give it further attention. I know I am a miserable sinner myself, but I have no wish to see my Lord portrayed in the manner of this play for he was free of sin in thought and deed.
I am not grumpy about this, just very concerned- and I wish more people were too. Accept this filth onto our screens and, logically, where will it all end? That seems to be the problem, actually. There is no logic! Our government bans foxhunting, the destruction of a sentient being in the name of sport and pleasure, while at the same time doing nothing to stop a national broadcaster putting on material which it knows will offend just as many. Is it just our secular,disbelieving society that is allowing this? Do we really care more about animals than people? Surely not. I care about all creatures too, but what is beginning to happen seems almost like the situation in first century Rome, where free citizens were quite content to allow thinking, feeling fellow human beings to be thrown to the lions just because they happened to believe that Jesus Christ was who he said he was.
Is this the persecution that many Christians say we can expect to come? If it is, then now is the time to stand up for what we believe however uncool it may seem and whatever reaction it brings. There are times when you know what is right, and when you know you have to speak out against what is happening. If William Wilberforce had not spent the greater part of his life 200 years ago campaigning against the slave trade, then many of our fellow men and women would still be in chains on plantations.
The basic nature of man, literally, is fallen- but if you see someone fall over, then the human instinct of compassion and concern is to help them up again, just as you would if you saw a little child fall over as I did today. This is not patronising, but supporting and caring. Please God that we will see more people in our society prepared to be supporters and carers, and that the good that has been brought out in so many following the tsunami disaster can rise triumphant above the selfish depravity that lurks within all of us. That is not grumpiness but "righteousness".
After brekky, I couldn't resist another spot of bookshop browsing. There are few finer free pleasures for me than pottering round literary emporia, and my choice this morning was the Eastbourne branch of Waterstones. I didn't actually buy anything though, unlike last Saturday when I spent New Year's Day afternoon having a bit of a spree in their three storey Richmond upon Thames store. The Eastbourne branch is much smaller, but no less enticing.
It's amazing what some people can sell a book on: among the delights on offer in their half price sale (necessarily copied by most of the other book retailers in town at present too) is one called "Britain's Best Roundabouts"! Allegedly inspired by the scenes of a previously-unassuming gyratory in Slough now made world-famous by The Office, I gather.
I was puzzled though by the placing of another of Christmas's big sellers- though you wouldn't think so by the discounted remaindering in the sale. It seems "Grumpy Old Men" bear two faces: one with mugshots of various celebs and the BBC logo, but alongside a different cover confusingly with the same title, broadly the same format and about the same size. At first, I wondered if this was due to a hasty reprint having John Peel's face taken off the dust jacket, but then given the books of homage also released in honour of the much-missed broadcaster before Christmas that seems unlikely. No, it appears there is a counterfeit grump at work with his own "manual" purporting to be official. Very strange- I shall have to investigate.
Both books are selling at the same price and cover the same territory, but if you ask me it's downright plagiarism. Now there is far too much of that at work in our society today I think, and it's why we're going to the dogs. Nobody has any originality any more, it's all regurgitating the same old rubbish and you just don't get the masterpieces you used to. All these chaps need to do is fire up their word processor and let it churn out words- it takes no effort at all. That's not great literature, it's pap.
OK, maybe my tongue is planted firmly in my cheek for that last paragraph for the sake of effect, but I am raising a serious point. Certainly when it comes to TV there is far too much insulting rubbish on at the moment. As I type this late on Saturday evening, I've had to turn the telly off, because both of our main BBC channels are broadcasting nothing but foul mouthed obscenities and in the case of BBC TWO, allegedly, even blasphemy-though at least there is no Celebrity Big Bro on at the moment.
The BBC- or "Blasphemous Broadcasting Corporation" as one Christian group has now dubbed it- have gone ahead with the showing of the TV version of the West End stage "hit" Jerry Springer-the Opera despite a record number of pre-transmission complaints to their own contact centres, and to Ofcom which has acquired the broadcasting standards and complaints functions of the previous commissions, supposedly. I say supposedly because it seems that Ofcom is a bit of a toothless wonder: they can only act on complaints post-transmission. This is ridiculous and pointless; as has much been pointed out over the last few days, it is rather like locking the stable door after the horse has bolted.
As for BBC ONE, their contribution to Saturday night "entertainment" is to show the last part of Billy Connolly's "World Tour of New Zealand". This is a programme which can't quite decide what it is trying to be. It could, potentially, have been a very interesting and watchable travelogue with the Big Yin travelling across the two islands down under on his Harley and stopping at some very interesting places along the way while discovering local culture. OK, Michael Palin he isn't, but it would still be an entertaining travelogue for those of us who'll maybe never make a 13K mile trip to the other side of the world to see it for ourselves.
But unfortunately, that's not good enough for the producers of this good story spoilt. They have to pepper it with footage of Mr Pamela Stephenson's live tours in the land of the Maori, and these as has come to be expected are littered with expletives which, quite frankly, add little to the potential humour of the stories Connolly tells. Why has the f-word seemingly become such an essential part of so-called "comedy" routines on the live circuit these days? The fact it is heard so much in the street speech of young people particularly does not mean it of necessity has to be repeated on the live stage, nor is it any the less offensive for its repeated useage among those who've no respect for their unwitting audience.
There are perfectly good, indeed hilarious and clever word plays and side-splitting tales to be made out of our language without needing to resort to the basest of Anglo-Saxon terminology. To name but one chap who's an expert at it, do try and catch The Very World of Milton Jones next time it is on Radio Four. Mr Jones is apparently a Christian, but this does not stop him and nor should it, from some amazing word play, bizarre situations and compulsive comedy which is suitable for all the family without being anodyne.
Tim Vine of ITV's The Sketch Show is another Christian who is brilliant at clever but inoffensive humour too. We need more of his ilk, but I doubt anyone can ever match the sheer genius of that oversized clown who has been voted the best comedian of all time, the late great Tommy Cooper, sometime resident of Eastbourne. Still much missed, Tommy never relied on a blue routine in his life, but twenty years after his death sells DVDs by the thousand simply because of his sense of fun and being able to poke fun at himself rather than others unable to defend themselves. A true professional.
Watching live theatre is one thing: grown adults can choose to go and see "adult" humour or "innovative" material featuring the language of the sewer if they so choose. I never would, personally. But to inflict it on licence payers with the obsequious "you can always use the off switch" is to miss the point. There is a world of difference between making a personal choice to pay to see something, than having no choice in what a public service broadcaster chooses to fill Saturday night screens with. Where did this permissiveness creep in exactly, and why? Everyone is at it now, it seems- from Jonathan Ross to the whole of the "They Think It's All Over" team. It's un-necessary, it's smut and in the case of a programme parodying Jesus Christ it is also deeply offensive to people of the Christian faith. And yet, if anybody dared say such things against other faiths, needless to say there is uproar.
Of course, there has to be a balance. In a free society, among people of free will, you can't ban these things altogether, but that does not mean you can't be responsible in how they are displayed, particularly on a freely available public medium. In any case, some might argue that the abuse- which the producers claim is more satire than deliberate offence, and even the star David Soul says he is a Christian- is as nothing compared to the abuse, scourging and deliberate brutality actually inflicted on Jesus before his shameless crucifixion. That may be so, but it does not justify the portrayal of him, whether or not it is actually as claimed when screened. I guess I shall never know, as I have no intention of even deigning to give it further attention. I know I am a miserable sinner myself, but I have no wish to see my Lord portrayed in the manner of this play for he was free of sin in thought and deed.
I am not grumpy about this, just very concerned- and I wish more people were too. Accept this filth onto our screens and, logically, where will it all end? That seems to be the problem, actually. There is no logic! Our government bans foxhunting, the destruction of a sentient being in the name of sport and pleasure, while at the same time doing nothing to stop a national broadcaster putting on material which it knows will offend just as many. Is it just our secular,disbelieving society that is allowing this? Do we really care more about animals than people? Surely not. I care about all creatures too, but what is beginning to happen seems almost like the situation in first century Rome, where free citizens were quite content to allow thinking, feeling fellow human beings to be thrown to the lions just because they happened to believe that Jesus Christ was who he said he was.
Is this the persecution that many Christians say we can expect to come? If it is, then now is the time to stand up for what we believe however uncool it may seem and whatever reaction it brings. There are times when you know what is right, and when you know you have to speak out against what is happening. If William Wilberforce had not spent the greater part of his life 200 years ago campaigning against the slave trade, then many of our fellow men and women would still be in chains on plantations.
The basic nature of man, literally, is fallen- but if you see someone fall over, then the human instinct of compassion and concern is to help them up again, just as you would if you saw a little child fall over as I did today. This is not patronising, but supporting and caring. Please God that we will see more people in our society prepared to be supporters and carers, and that the good that has been brought out in so many following the tsunami disaster can rise triumphant above the selfish depravity that lurks within all of us. That is not grumpiness but "righteousness".
Friday, 7 January 2005
The Normal Conquest
So here we are at the end of the first week of 2005. January is a peculiar month: most of the time it can seem so long and gloomy, with nothing to look forward to. And yet already nearly a quarter of it is done. The festivities now seem a long way behind us already, even though it's only a fortnight since Christmas Eve. The weather outside has returned to its pre-Christmas greyness which so depressed me and brought me close to tears in December. I seem to be finding it easier to take the cloudy days in this new year though. A glowing sunset over Beachy Head yesterday foreshadowed the hope of Summer and the long light evenings to come- which as a summer baby are much more my natural environment.
The vital sunlight also offers the promise of new life emerging from all the winter bleakness which has been so augmented this momentous fortnight by the horrendous events in South East Asia. Yesterday was Epiphany, celebrating the end of the Christmas season in the Western tradition and the revealing of Jesus to the Magi, or "wise men". On the other hand, today in the Eastern Orthodox church is Christmas Day itself, making it very tempting to move to Greece or Russia, to have Christmas all over again. It's always sad to say goodbye to all the comforts, feasting and enjoyment of Christmas, but as a hymn says we can "keep a Christmas in our heart" every day of the year.
Some might question the validity of any celebration of the nativity of Christ let alone one extending for nearly two weeks.Indeed some religious groups do not observe Christmas- notably the Jehovah's Witnesses. The early church itself did not have a formal celebration of the event, but I think we are the poorer if we do not remember the meaning of God coming among us for what it really is. Had Jesus Christ not been born, man would still be the wretched creature he really is, and life would be largely meaningless. However, I and millions of followers of "The Way"- as Christians were first known- worldwide are so thankful Jesus was "normal" and yet divine. Because God lived among us, knowing and experiencing every detail of what it means to be human- in joy and in sorrow- that is why we can and should lead our own normal, everyday lives with a confident trust whatever uncertainties and worries it brings alongside it's myriad pleasures.
We should indeed take each day of this infant year as the blessing it is. Jesus said don't worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will have enough cares of its own; my grace is sufficient for you today. A Christian memorial service in ( I think ) Phuket on New Year's Day, shown in a heart-rending BBC ONE documentary on the tsunami last night, was a poignant and fitting reminder of that "Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me".
Many, of course, have questioned the existence and reality of God as the news pictures have hit home these past twelve nights- how ironic that it should have been during the twelve days of Christmas that everybody's comfort zones should have been so brutally invaded by a monster with no personality but Mother Nature. I may have appeared to be taking an almost casual, everything will be alright attitude to the situation in my recent postings, but maybe that has just been my way of coping. No human heart can remain untouched by what has happened, and even the great and the good, the "wise men" of 21st century society, have been brought low- perhaps even to their knees in prayer- at what has happened. Colin Powell, Kofi Annan, Tony Blair, Bushes George Senior and Junior and former president Clinton-all have somehow shown themselves to be fully human in a way I've never seen before of any public figure in their reaction to the true picture of devastation which has to be seen to be believed.
Yesterday, the Association of South East Asian Nations- ASEAN- invited world figures to a summit in Jakarta, and started discussing how best to apply the pledges of aid and assistance, and to get it to the most needy areas as quickly and effectively as possible. It was made all too clear how often in the past, nations have pledged support and solidarity with stricken communities only to fail to deliver on their promises. Please God, this will not happen for once this time; expert opinion says that it may take upwards of a decade for some of the worst affected areas to be rebuilt. Even then, you cannot so easily rebuild a shattered, traumatised life as you can a ramshackle home- and least of all in the lives of orphaned, homeless, hungry children, those least able to look after themselves. Seeing the tears in the eyes of some of the young victims of the tsunami on yesterday's news coverage was almost too much to bear, but see it we must- and open our eyes to the true needs of our world which is the true price of love. Whether Christian or Jew, Muslim or Hindu, Buddhist or Ba'Hai, there is an open cheque required here which common humanity demands we honour.
DARKNESS INTO LIGHT
I finally took my decorations down on Wednesday evening- though still it's a moot point whether that is really Twelfth Night or that title goes to the evening of Epiphany. When all's said and done, of course, it doesn't really matter. Like the year itself, now a week-old baby, Epiphany marks both an end and a beginning So the gentle twinkling,comforting glow of the fibre optics has gone for another eleven months as has the welcoming sight of trees and glowing candle lights in countless windows and the delightfully over the top coloured splendours which have adorned so many homes through the darkest moments of the year. In its place come the opportunities for enlightenment which a new year brings for each of us: to lighten the body by shedding an excess kilo or twenty (fat chance!), to replace pastry brush with decorator's paintbrush and/or to look at the many ways to make more of life in the year ahead. It may be- as in my case, I hope- in one's career, in self-improvement, fulfilling relationships or to Christians, drawing closer to God.
On Tuesday evening, I strolled out into a damp, dark evening for the 5 minute trip down to the premises of Central Methodist Church where my own chosen fellowship here, Ceylon Place Baptist Church, are currently meeting. It was the launch of "A Call to Prayer" for January 2005. It proved to be an hour and a half of thought-provoking, insightful, helpful, feeding spiritual reflection at a time when few thoughts could be away from events half a world away. Of course, these were rightly included in our prayers and reflections; indeed, in one of my own public prayers I made the connection between our own church's name and 'homelessness', with the pitiful state of the nation once known as Ceylon which is Sri Lanka today.
2004 was a year of great sadness, change and challenge for "CPBC", especially after the building they had used for over a hundred years was sold at the end of last January. Selling up and moving on was a brave and difficult decision to take; many who had called the Victorian building their spiritual home for most of their life must have felt very uneasy and uncomfortable with having to change habits and "start over" as the Americans put it.
Twelve months later, there's still uncertainty and no easy, predictable way forward for this church. Are we being called to stay put and develop our relationships with other traditions in Central Eastbourne? Or must we break with the past and move on somewhere new, to reach other needy communities in the town in a new way and a different location? Answers don't always come easy, and nor should they. The illuminati of the world can debate until the (sacred) cows come home, but without practical assistance promptly, their deliberations will mean nothing. This is what the Bible means when it says "faith without works is dead".
The tsunami commands our urgent, present attention, but all too soon it will pass from the headlines and other stories of need and greed, love and life will take its place in the media. But just as a 3-minute silence brought many to pause and reflect on Wednesday, bringing the oily wheels of commerce and all our sparkly dreams to a halt for two hundred or so heartbeats, so we need to hear the sound of each heart beating with anxiety in the two thirds world throughout this year. Whether or not we choose to worship his son in church or temple, we need to hear God's insistent knocking at the doors of our heart. Like the figure of Christ in Holman Hunt's wonderful painting, who holds a lantern and stands in the darkness, we need our normality to be tinged by his humanity.
The paradox of divinity and humanity can never be fully understood, just as how God can be made known in the darkest portions of human history can never be fully known. But somewhere in the darkness of all lives lurks the pilot light of Christmas which never goes out. Back on the TV screens, Channel 4 is once again bringing us Big Brother, this time in its celebrity form. A diet of trivia and teasing, mediocre moments tinged with perhaps just a touch of insight are what many will be turning to watch over the next few weeks. I can't stand this twaddle myself, but life is not meant to be full of unrelenting sadness and maybe it's a good thing to have something else to think of, other lives to watch. Nevertheless, rather than wasting time and money on voting off the unwanted housemates, I want this year to turn my eyes more to the light of the world than the light of a cathode ray tube. Prayer is man's rechargeable power pack to the source of all light and life, and should be carried with you at all times. It is normal and needful for man to pray, however he does it. Seven days without prayer makes one weak.
The vital sunlight also offers the promise of new life emerging from all the winter bleakness which has been so augmented this momentous fortnight by the horrendous events in South East Asia. Yesterday was Epiphany, celebrating the end of the Christmas season in the Western tradition and the revealing of Jesus to the Magi, or "wise men". On the other hand, today in the Eastern Orthodox church is Christmas Day itself, making it very tempting to move to Greece or Russia, to have Christmas all over again. It's always sad to say goodbye to all the comforts, feasting and enjoyment of Christmas, but as a hymn says we can "keep a Christmas in our heart" every day of the year.
Some might question the validity of any celebration of the nativity of Christ let alone one extending for nearly two weeks.Indeed some religious groups do not observe Christmas- notably the Jehovah's Witnesses. The early church itself did not have a formal celebration of the event, but I think we are the poorer if we do not remember the meaning of God coming among us for what it really is. Had Jesus Christ not been born, man would still be the wretched creature he really is, and life would be largely meaningless. However, I and millions of followers of "The Way"- as Christians were first known- worldwide are so thankful Jesus was "normal" and yet divine. Because God lived among us, knowing and experiencing every detail of what it means to be human- in joy and in sorrow- that is why we can and should lead our own normal, everyday lives with a confident trust whatever uncertainties and worries it brings alongside it's myriad pleasures.
We should indeed take each day of this infant year as the blessing it is. Jesus said don't worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will have enough cares of its own; my grace is sufficient for you today. A Christian memorial service in ( I think ) Phuket on New Year's Day, shown in a heart-rending BBC ONE documentary on the tsunami last night, was a poignant and fitting reminder of that "Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me".
Many, of course, have questioned the existence and reality of God as the news pictures have hit home these past twelve nights- how ironic that it should have been during the twelve days of Christmas that everybody's comfort zones should have been so brutally invaded by a monster with no personality but Mother Nature. I may have appeared to be taking an almost casual, everything will be alright attitude to the situation in my recent postings, but maybe that has just been my way of coping. No human heart can remain untouched by what has happened, and even the great and the good, the "wise men" of 21st century society, have been brought low- perhaps even to their knees in prayer- at what has happened. Colin Powell, Kofi Annan, Tony Blair, Bushes George Senior and Junior and former president Clinton-all have somehow shown themselves to be fully human in a way I've never seen before of any public figure in their reaction to the true picture of devastation which has to be seen to be believed.
Yesterday, the Association of South East Asian Nations- ASEAN- invited world figures to a summit in Jakarta, and started discussing how best to apply the pledges of aid and assistance, and to get it to the most needy areas as quickly and effectively as possible. It was made all too clear how often in the past, nations have pledged support and solidarity with stricken communities only to fail to deliver on their promises. Please God, this will not happen for once this time; expert opinion says that it may take upwards of a decade for some of the worst affected areas to be rebuilt. Even then, you cannot so easily rebuild a shattered, traumatised life as you can a ramshackle home- and least of all in the lives of orphaned, homeless, hungry children, those least able to look after themselves. Seeing the tears in the eyes of some of the young victims of the tsunami on yesterday's news coverage was almost too much to bear, but see it we must- and open our eyes to the true needs of our world which is the true price of love. Whether Christian or Jew, Muslim or Hindu, Buddhist or Ba'Hai, there is an open cheque required here which common humanity demands we honour.
DARKNESS INTO LIGHT
I finally took my decorations down on Wednesday evening- though still it's a moot point whether that is really Twelfth Night or that title goes to the evening of Epiphany. When all's said and done, of course, it doesn't really matter. Like the year itself, now a week-old baby, Epiphany marks both an end and a beginning So the gentle twinkling,comforting glow of the fibre optics has gone for another eleven months as has the welcoming sight of trees and glowing candle lights in countless windows and the delightfully over the top coloured splendours which have adorned so many homes through the darkest moments of the year. In its place come the opportunities for enlightenment which a new year brings for each of us: to lighten the body by shedding an excess kilo or twenty (fat chance!), to replace pastry brush with decorator's paintbrush and/or to look at the many ways to make more of life in the year ahead. It may be- as in my case, I hope- in one's career, in self-improvement, fulfilling relationships or to Christians, drawing closer to God.
On Tuesday evening, I strolled out into a damp, dark evening for the 5 minute trip down to the premises of Central Methodist Church where my own chosen fellowship here, Ceylon Place Baptist Church, are currently meeting. It was the launch of "A Call to Prayer" for January 2005. It proved to be an hour and a half of thought-provoking, insightful, helpful, feeding spiritual reflection at a time when few thoughts could be away from events half a world away. Of course, these were rightly included in our prayers and reflections; indeed, in one of my own public prayers I made the connection between our own church's name and 'homelessness', with the pitiful state of the nation once known as Ceylon which is Sri Lanka today.
2004 was a year of great sadness, change and challenge for "CPBC", especially after the building they had used for over a hundred years was sold at the end of last January. Selling up and moving on was a brave and difficult decision to take; many who had called the Victorian building their spiritual home for most of their life must have felt very uneasy and uncomfortable with having to change habits and "start over" as the Americans put it.
Twelve months later, there's still uncertainty and no easy, predictable way forward for this church. Are we being called to stay put and develop our relationships with other traditions in Central Eastbourne? Or must we break with the past and move on somewhere new, to reach other needy communities in the town in a new way and a different location? Answers don't always come easy, and nor should they. The illuminati of the world can debate until the (sacred) cows come home, but without practical assistance promptly, their deliberations will mean nothing. This is what the Bible means when it says "faith without works is dead".
The tsunami commands our urgent, present attention, but all too soon it will pass from the headlines and other stories of need and greed, love and life will take its place in the media. But just as a 3-minute silence brought many to pause and reflect on Wednesday, bringing the oily wheels of commerce and all our sparkly dreams to a halt for two hundred or so heartbeats, so we need to hear the sound of each heart beating with anxiety in the two thirds world throughout this year. Whether or not we choose to worship his son in church or temple, we need to hear God's insistent knocking at the doors of our heart. Like the figure of Christ in Holman Hunt's wonderful painting, who holds a lantern and stands in the darkness, we need our normality to be tinged by his humanity.
The paradox of divinity and humanity can never be fully understood, just as how God can be made known in the darkest portions of human history can never be fully known. But somewhere in the darkness of all lives lurks the pilot light of Christmas which never goes out. Back on the TV screens, Channel 4 is once again bringing us Big Brother, this time in its celebrity form. A diet of trivia and teasing, mediocre moments tinged with perhaps just a touch of insight are what many will be turning to watch over the next few weeks. I can't stand this twaddle myself, but life is not meant to be full of unrelenting sadness and maybe it's a good thing to have something else to think of, other lives to watch. Nevertheless, rather than wasting time and money on voting off the unwanted housemates, I want this year to turn my eyes more to the light of the world than the light of a cathode ray tube. Prayer is man's rechargeable power pack to the source of all light and life, and should be carried with you at all times. It is normal and needful for man to pray, however he does it. Seven days without prayer makes one weak.
Monday, 3 January 2005
Calendars and Counters
Not much to add at this point on January 3rd, apart from remembering my dear Dad, who would have been 79 today. It was always our custom to keep the decorations up til today, and so it remains, though of course they have to come down eventually. I'll probably take the bulk of them down tomorrow, before heading back to Eastbourne and returning to the tricky business of finding a decent job.
Dad's birthday was also the day that the Christmas cake usually got sliced and gleefully eaten! This year has been such a disordered strangeness, that we have yet to eat our own pudding which I made back in November- it should be well matured for now so maybe ought to come out later. As in Britain we finally end our long Christmas hols (though I believe if you are in Scotland there's another holiday tomorrow in lieu of the 2nd of Hogmanay/January), I hope you are all rested and feasted-though don't forget Twelfth Night of which more anon.
Regular readers of this blog may have noticed a new feature has appeared at the bottom of the page. This is a site meter, which enables me to have at least a rough idea of who is reading the page, where they come from and how long they are reading for. Because it comes free, I'm required to keep it visible on the page so if you are into statistics, just roll your mouse over the counter and read on. It doesn't however give the full e-mail addresses of readers, so if you prefer to read anonymously, you're quite OK!
The other feature which I enabled on this blog way back when is the "allow new comments" feature. As I mention in my profile on the left, please feel free to add your own thoughts and opinions to anything I've written. Just click on the comments section at the bottom of each page and I'll get to read them. They can also be published on this blogspot for a wider audience, though if you prefer me not to, no problem- just let me know.
I guess the blog is the 21st Century answer to the pocket diary. These always provided a very convenient present for Dad each January and I always relished each year's schoolboy diary in my own Christmas stocking, with its assemblage of fascinating facts and the blank pages of a year ahead. Mind you, I often used to count down the days til next Christmas at the same time: talk about wishing your life away during your teens! Though I've always been a wannabe writer and left school aiming to get into journalism, the entries in those days were hardly up to Adrian Mole's standard, let alone Samuel Pepys. More often than not, they tended to be along the lines of "had dinner. Fish fingers and chips. Watched TV: Crossroads. Visited Grandma" - a fictionalised example. Space and time seemed to post limits on self-expression through the small space of a printed page and my lousy handwriting, and yet they still bring a smile of recognition as I look back at my entries three decades later.
Who knows what the blogs of 2004 and 2005 will mean to a future generation of historians? Is someone virtually preserving them somewhere? It would be nice to think they are, as they provide a fascinating glimpse into the ordinary lives of extraordinary people far beyond the scope of National Archives and even the Mass Observation project, which I toyed with the idea of getting involved with some years ago after looking after the project co-ordinator on a BBC interview. Or will blogs fade away in the manner of the sweets and toys of yesteryear- the Aztec bars and the Slinkies: a craze for a time and then abandoned in favour of the next new thing. I certainly hope not. If you discover any other interesting blogs in your surfing, or you're a blogger yourself, please let me know the details and I'll try to include a link here.
Now, it being a peak time phone day even though a Bank Holiday in Britain, I must really hang up. A visiting cat called William is causing a delightful distraction in our garden!
Dad's birthday was also the day that the Christmas cake usually got sliced and gleefully eaten! This year has been such a disordered strangeness, that we have yet to eat our own pudding which I made back in November- it should be well matured for now so maybe ought to come out later. As in Britain we finally end our long Christmas hols (though I believe if you are in Scotland there's another holiday tomorrow in lieu of the 2nd of Hogmanay/January), I hope you are all rested and feasted-though don't forget Twelfth Night of which more anon.
Regular readers of this blog may have noticed a new feature has appeared at the bottom of the page. This is a site meter, which enables me to have at least a rough idea of who is reading the page, where they come from and how long they are reading for. Because it comes free, I'm required to keep it visible on the page so if you are into statistics, just roll your mouse over the counter and read on. It doesn't however give the full e-mail addresses of readers, so if you prefer to read anonymously, you're quite OK!
The other feature which I enabled on this blog way back when is the "allow new comments" feature. As I mention in my profile on the left, please feel free to add your own thoughts and opinions to anything I've written. Just click on the comments section at the bottom of each page and I'll get to read them. They can also be published on this blogspot for a wider audience, though if you prefer me not to, no problem- just let me know.
I guess the blog is the 21st Century answer to the pocket diary. These always provided a very convenient present for Dad each January and I always relished each year's schoolboy diary in my own Christmas stocking, with its assemblage of fascinating facts and the blank pages of a year ahead. Mind you, I often used to count down the days til next Christmas at the same time: talk about wishing your life away during your teens! Though I've always been a wannabe writer and left school aiming to get into journalism, the entries in those days were hardly up to Adrian Mole's standard, let alone Samuel Pepys. More often than not, they tended to be along the lines of "had dinner. Fish fingers and chips. Watched TV: Crossroads. Visited Grandma" - a fictionalised example. Space and time seemed to post limits on self-expression through the small space of a printed page and my lousy handwriting, and yet they still bring a smile of recognition as I look back at my entries three decades later.
Who knows what the blogs of 2004 and 2005 will mean to a future generation of historians? Is someone virtually preserving them somewhere? It would be nice to think they are, as they provide a fascinating glimpse into the ordinary lives of extraordinary people far beyond the scope of National Archives and even the Mass Observation project, which I toyed with the idea of getting involved with some years ago after looking after the project co-ordinator on a BBC interview. Or will blogs fade away in the manner of the sweets and toys of yesteryear- the Aztec bars and the Slinkies: a craze for a time and then abandoned in favour of the next new thing. I certainly hope not. If you discover any other interesting blogs in your surfing, or you're a blogger yourself, please let me know the details and I'll try to include a link here.
Now, it being a peak time phone day even though a Bank Holiday in Britain, I must really hang up. A visiting cat called William is causing a delightful distraction in our garden!
Sunday, 2 January 2005
Three Heads are better than Two
I wonder who it was that introduced the tossing of a coin as the way of making a decision? I wouldn't be at all surprised if it was one of the many things the Romans did for us, but I don't think I'll find it in my Christmas present book about the origins of common sayings called Red Herrings and White Elephants. It's got me intrigued though, so perhaps before this holiday is out- yes, one more day to go tomorrow!- I'll see if I can track down the answer somewhere or other. If not, well maybe it's time I post another question to the Guardian's Notes and Queries. I was quite amazed that several people took the time to respond to my query about warming teapots and cups before use a while back. Not that all of the replies were entirely complimentary, mind!
The trouble with tossing a coin is that it only works where the number of choices available is limited to two. Just goes to show there is nothing new in computer logic when it comes down to it, the simple binary state: on/off, yes/no, alive/dead : this way/that way. Or even black/white.
If only life were that simple, that there were only ever two choices available to us. Maybe one day someone will decide there is a use for a three-faced coin, but I'd like to see them try to make it. The Romans on their coinage tried to have a two-faced man: is that where that particular saying comes from, I wonder: not sure, but I do know his name. Janus. Sound familiar? It ought to, as you're probably reading this in the month named in his honour- January. Janus was actually a real man, becoming after his death deified as the God of doors and gates, or endings and beginnings. It's therefore very appropriate that his should be the inspiration for the first month of a new year and why he is one of my subjects in this first blog posting of 2005.
In case you're wondering, I haven't just recovered from a major hangover and forgotten all about the 1st January. Although I've had my moments in the past, I'm not really in to bingeing these days, though did enjoy a tincture or two both before and after midnight as New Year's Eve morphed into New Year's Day. The more down to earth answer is that I just did not get round to writing a posting yesterday, which was really a rather strange sort of day. Of course, with Blogger I could cheat if I so chose, and give the impression that something I'm writing today was actually done yesterday. But what purpose would that serve? Honesty is the best policy, which is why I'm writing on what weather wise is an altogether more pleasant day than the first of the year. Today has brought some lovely bright winter sunshine which really restored my soul along with a good, sensitively handled service at Christ church at the end of this peculiarly difficult Christmas week.
The almost spring-like weather sent me down to the lovely riverside village of Sunbury on Thames after church to enjoy a spot of reflection and contemplation listening to the birds of the air and watching their waddling cousins on the river. Spelthorne Borough Council have done a grand job of restoring the walled garden inside Sunbury Park, which has become another of my favourite prayer retreats when I am back here in Middlesex. It was here that I came in the week following my Dad's death over five years ago and on several troubled occasions since. They say you are closer to God in a garden than anywhere else on earth, and I'd probably agree. Even in the depths of winter, there are signs of new life here, and colour. The pansies and primula are to be expected, but more of a surprise in January was the delightfully fragrant delicate blossom of a vibernum and several other botanical sights to gladden a saddened eye.
It should I suppose come as little suprise that a garden can do so much to soothe a jaded soul. It occurred to me while sitting there, hand over eyes to shield them from the almost blinding mid-day sunlight, that the Bible pictures God creating man in a garden. When man's disobedient actions soured the serenity and the perfection of that place, it might have seemed there was no way to restore the glory of those early post-creation moments when he and his maker were at one and everything in the garden was lovely.
And yet, it was in a garden that God chose to demonstrate the agony and the ecstasy of his love for mankind and to restore us to something of that relationship we were born to have with Him. Jesus's final hours on earth started in a garden, where he wept for himself and found himself abandoned even by his closest friends, sleeping and oblivious, uncomprehending of the horror which yet had to happen. We are just the same if we take the Christmas story as it is with the niceness of the baby in a manger and forget all about the cruelty of Calvary coming so soon after. It's an early Easter this year, and my thoughts are already turning to my next preaching engagement in seven weeks time.
Gethsemane was creation crying, Jesus the Lord praying, hoping, wishing he could do anything but take up the cup of suffering he was being asked to endure as the climax of his mission on Earth. He wept and agonised simply because He Was. He was Man. Yet still he knew, and obeyed, his Father. Because he was also God- another side of the coin. An innocent man- the most innocent of any- was killed brutally and painfully, without mercy, by Roman sentence the next day. He who was love itself died on a lonely cross, and God's will was done.
But hang on in there. Could this really be the will of God, that evil should triumph in a moment of horror on a spring afternoon? Of course not. God's will was and is that man should not perish, but have eternal life. It's a concept difficult to get to grips with in the wake of the most catastrophic "natural" event within living memory. Where can a God of love be in all this? That has been the question on legions of lips and countless heads these last seven days, as played out on the world screen has been the tragedy of so many lost lives and others devastated in an instant. It all seems a very long way from a cosy, pleasant Sunday afternoon stroll beside the waters of Old Father Thames in leafy Middlesex to the debris of a waterfront home in faraway Phuket and death and dying all around. So far that most of us are numbed to it all, just as in the grief of our own losses we all have to face sooner or later, a kind of inner defence mechanism takes over to keep us going with ordinary life.
It's a mystery beyond the understanding of the greatest brain where God is in all this, and yet why in all the despair and questioning of the past week, God has come and is with us- Emmanuel. He is the same yesterday, today and forever. God is here because a charity appeal raises in three days the equivalent of £1 for every man, woman and child in the United Kingdom and the figure is still growing. God is here because the basic human need for fresh drinking water is met in an instant, just as Jesus himself asked for a drink of a despised foreigner- the Samaritan woman- at a well in the Holy Land. God is here because in Sri Lanka fighting factions who have been at each other's throats for two decades come together in common humanity and shared need. And he is here because the binary miracle which is the internet brings news of these momentous but horrendous events to the attention of all in an instant and amidst all the tragedies, miracles do still happen as families find one another and life goes on.
The Christian versions of the funeral services which may be the last dignity of those able to receive them in the muddy muddle of corpses and bundled bodies say that in the midst of life we are in death. Indeed we are. Nobody eight days ago could possibly have forecast the extent of the damage, the loss of life, the international impact of the Boxing Day Tsunami 2004. Still at times it is impossible to comprehend the magnitude of what has happened. But who too could have predicted- not even his own nearest and dearest-, nearly 2000 years ago, that God's Son sent into the world was his irrevocable guarantee that man no more need die. Believe and live as we are meant to live- loving one's neighbour as oneself- and life finds its true meaning. Painful though it is for a time, many years for some, death has lost its sting.
The astonishing outpouring of compassion and caring, fellow feeling and sheer humanity of the last few days belies the old funeral oration to the core. In the midst of death, we are in life.
THE THIRD HEAD...
God is Our Father. God is Our Lord. But God is also Our Friend- our counsellor, our helper. At the beginning of another year, everyone in the Sunday papers, the political soapboxes and the informed commentators of many disciplines are offering their two penny worth on what will happen in the twelve months ahead. No doubt it's a lucrative diversion for the scribes to pay off the post-Christmas credit bills we now all have to face. How often I wonder will they be saying of some of the issues to be faced in the year ahead that it could go either way- patently obvious, perhaps, in the case of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict where there is a better chance of peace now than at any time in the last 57 years.
And yet, for all the punditry and the postulating, such predictions seem pretty pointless compared to how a West for too long complacent to the needs of others should respond to the African and Asian nations who have lost families, breadwinners, mothers, fathers, children to illness, famine, war and disaster. It will take more than the toss of a coin to solve their problems. It will take a determined commitment to look back at the mistakes of the past, and respond practically but creatively to the meeting of their needs and the rebuilding of shattered lives in the future. It will take international co-operation on an unprecedented scale. It will take courage. Along the way, there will be worries and setbacks and those determined to wreck the good which can undoubtedly be done. Many may fear the dark world that still lies before us. The threat of terrorism has only been masked, not subdued, by the present understandable attention on a force far more deadly than Al Qa'ida, nature itself.
But a solution and an answer to at least some of these questions lie within our grasp because God has made a third face to the coin. Jesus did say the poor you will always have with you, but he also showed in the most unlikely of persons, a hated Samaritan wanderer tending to a mugger, that love wears no masks of race or creed. The Holy Spirit is his guide to us, and should lead all our decision making and actions. A leader facing a new year at another of the most troubled points in history knew this full well when he quoted this wonderful poem. George VI was the man and the occasion was the first Christmas of the second world war:
I said to the man who stood at the gate of the year
'Give me a light that I may tread safely into the unknown.'
And he replied, 'Go into the darkness and put your hand into the hand of God
That shall be to you better than light and safer than a known way!'
So I went forth and finding the Hand of God
Trod gladly into the night
He led me towards the hills
And the breaking of day in the lone east.
So heart be still!
What need our human life to know
If God hath comprehension?
In all the dizzy strife of things
Both high and low,
God hideth his intention."
In the lone east of Asia, or in the lone lounge of island Britain, wherever you read this I pray that God's everlasting arms will support and surround you this year. We may think we have little cause to say it this year, and certainly the succession of silent remembrances on New Year's Eve were a poignant reminder of what we all share on this tiny planet. Because He is with us, though, I confidently wish you a HAPPY New Year.
The trouble with tossing a coin is that it only works where the number of choices available is limited to two. Just goes to show there is nothing new in computer logic when it comes down to it, the simple binary state: on/off, yes/no, alive/dead : this way/that way. Or even black/white.
If only life were that simple, that there were only ever two choices available to us. Maybe one day someone will decide there is a use for a three-faced coin, but I'd like to see them try to make it. The Romans on their coinage tried to have a two-faced man: is that where that particular saying comes from, I wonder: not sure, but I do know his name. Janus. Sound familiar? It ought to, as you're probably reading this in the month named in his honour- January. Janus was actually a real man, becoming after his death deified as the God of doors and gates, or endings and beginnings. It's therefore very appropriate that his should be the inspiration for the first month of a new year and why he is one of my subjects in this first blog posting of 2005.
In case you're wondering, I haven't just recovered from a major hangover and forgotten all about the 1st January. Although I've had my moments in the past, I'm not really in to bingeing these days, though did enjoy a tincture or two both before and after midnight as New Year's Eve morphed into New Year's Day. The more down to earth answer is that I just did not get round to writing a posting yesterday, which was really a rather strange sort of day. Of course, with Blogger I could cheat if I so chose, and give the impression that something I'm writing today was actually done yesterday. But what purpose would that serve? Honesty is the best policy, which is why I'm writing on what weather wise is an altogether more pleasant day than the first of the year. Today has brought some lovely bright winter sunshine which really restored my soul along with a good, sensitively handled service at Christ church at the end of this peculiarly difficult Christmas week.
The almost spring-like weather sent me down to the lovely riverside village of Sunbury on Thames after church to enjoy a spot of reflection and contemplation listening to the birds of the air and watching their waddling cousins on the river. Spelthorne Borough Council have done a grand job of restoring the walled garden inside Sunbury Park, which has become another of my favourite prayer retreats when I am back here in Middlesex. It was here that I came in the week following my Dad's death over five years ago and on several troubled occasions since. They say you are closer to God in a garden than anywhere else on earth, and I'd probably agree. Even in the depths of winter, there are signs of new life here, and colour. The pansies and primula are to be expected, but more of a surprise in January was the delightfully fragrant delicate blossom of a vibernum and several other botanical sights to gladden a saddened eye.
It should I suppose come as little suprise that a garden can do so much to soothe a jaded soul. It occurred to me while sitting there, hand over eyes to shield them from the almost blinding mid-day sunlight, that the Bible pictures God creating man in a garden. When man's disobedient actions soured the serenity and the perfection of that place, it might have seemed there was no way to restore the glory of those early post-creation moments when he and his maker were at one and everything in the garden was lovely.
And yet, it was in a garden that God chose to demonstrate the agony and the ecstasy of his love for mankind and to restore us to something of that relationship we were born to have with Him. Jesus's final hours on earth started in a garden, where he wept for himself and found himself abandoned even by his closest friends, sleeping and oblivious, uncomprehending of the horror which yet had to happen. We are just the same if we take the Christmas story as it is with the niceness of the baby in a manger and forget all about the cruelty of Calvary coming so soon after. It's an early Easter this year, and my thoughts are already turning to my next preaching engagement in seven weeks time.
Gethsemane was creation crying, Jesus the Lord praying, hoping, wishing he could do anything but take up the cup of suffering he was being asked to endure as the climax of his mission on Earth. He wept and agonised simply because He Was. He was Man. Yet still he knew, and obeyed, his Father. Because he was also God- another side of the coin. An innocent man- the most innocent of any- was killed brutally and painfully, without mercy, by Roman sentence the next day. He who was love itself died on a lonely cross, and God's will was done.
But hang on in there. Could this really be the will of God, that evil should triumph in a moment of horror on a spring afternoon? Of course not. God's will was and is that man should not perish, but have eternal life. It's a concept difficult to get to grips with in the wake of the most catastrophic "natural" event within living memory. Where can a God of love be in all this? That has been the question on legions of lips and countless heads these last seven days, as played out on the world screen has been the tragedy of so many lost lives and others devastated in an instant. It all seems a very long way from a cosy, pleasant Sunday afternoon stroll beside the waters of Old Father Thames in leafy Middlesex to the debris of a waterfront home in faraway Phuket and death and dying all around. So far that most of us are numbed to it all, just as in the grief of our own losses we all have to face sooner or later, a kind of inner defence mechanism takes over to keep us going with ordinary life.
It's a mystery beyond the understanding of the greatest brain where God is in all this, and yet why in all the despair and questioning of the past week, God has come and is with us- Emmanuel. He is the same yesterday, today and forever. God is here because a charity appeal raises in three days the equivalent of £1 for every man, woman and child in the United Kingdom and the figure is still growing. God is here because the basic human need for fresh drinking water is met in an instant, just as Jesus himself asked for a drink of a despised foreigner- the Samaritan woman- at a well in the Holy Land. God is here because in Sri Lanka fighting factions who have been at each other's throats for two decades come together in common humanity and shared need. And he is here because the binary miracle which is the internet brings news of these momentous but horrendous events to the attention of all in an instant and amidst all the tragedies, miracles do still happen as families find one another and life goes on.
The Christian versions of the funeral services which may be the last dignity of those able to receive them in the muddy muddle of corpses and bundled bodies say that in the midst of life we are in death. Indeed we are. Nobody eight days ago could possibly have forecast the extent of the damage, the loss of life, the international impact of the Boxing Day Tsunami 2004. Still at times it is impossible to comprehend the magnitude of what has happened. But who too could have predicted- not even his own nearest and dearest-, nearly 2000 years ago, that God's Son sent into the world was his irrevocable guarantee that man no more need die. Believe and live as we are meant to live- loving one's neighbour as oneself- and life finds its true meaning. Painful though it is for a time, many years for some, death has lost its sting.
The astonishing outpouring of compassion and caring, fellow feeling and sheer humanity of the last few days belies the old funeral oration to the core. In the midst of death, we are in life.
THE THIRD HEAD...
God is Our Father. God is Our Lord. But God is also Our Friend- our counsellor, our helper. At the beginning of another year, everyone in the Sunday papers, the political soapboxes and the informed commentators of many disciplines are offering their two penny worth on what will happen in the twelve months ahead. No doubt it's a lucrative diversion for the scribes to pay off the post-Christmas credit bills we now all have to face. How often I wonder will they be saying of some of the issues to be faced in the year ahead that it could go either way- patently obvious, perhaps, in the case of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict where there is a better chance of peace now than at any time in the last 57 years.
And yet, for all the punditry and the postulating, such predictions seem pretty pointless compared to how a West for too long complacent to the needs of others should respond to the African and Asian nations who have lost families, breadwinners, mothers, fathers, children to illness, famine, war and disaster. It will take more than the toss of a coin to solve their problems. It will take a determined commitment to look back at the mistakes of the past, and respond practically but creatively to the meeting of their needs and the rebuilding of shattered lives in the future. It will take international co-operation on an unprecedented scale. It will take courage. Along the way, there will be worries and setbacks and those determined to wreck the good which can undoubtedly be done. Many may fear the dark world that still lies before us. The threat of terrorism has only been masked, not subdued, by the present understandable attention on a force far more deadly than Al Qa'ida, nature itself.
But a solution and an answer to at least some of these questions lie within our grasp because God has made a third face to the coin. Jesus did say the poor you will always have with you, but he also showed in the most unlikely of persons, a hated Samaritan wanderer tending to a mugger, that love wears no masks of race or creed. The Holy Spirit is his guide to us, and should lead all our decision making and actions. A leader facing a new year at another of the most troubled points in history knew this full well when he quoted this wonderful poem. George VI was the man and the occasion was the first Christmas of the second world war:
I said to the man who stood at the gate of the year
'Give me a light that I may tread safely into the unknown.'
And he replied, 'Go into the darkness and put your hand into the hand of God
That shall be to you better than light and safer than a known way!'
So I went forth and finding the Hand of God
Trod gladly into the night
He led me towards the hills
And the breaking of day in the lone east.
So heart be still!
What need our human life to know
If God hath comprehension?
In all the dizzy strife of things
Both high and low,
God hideth his intention."
In the lone east of Asia, or in the lone lounge of island Britain, wherever you read this I pray that God's everlasting arms will support and surround you this year. We may think we have little cause to say it this year, and certainly the succession of silent remembrances on New Year's Eve were a poignant reminder of what we all share on this tiny planet. Because He is with us, though, I confidently wish you a HAPPY New Year.
Friday, 31 December 2004
And Finally...
Well, maybe not quite. Knowing my enthusiasm for blogging this last week, I would not be at all surprised if there is another posting from me later on this New Year's Eve, though at the turn of the year itself, I shall probably be indulging in a glass of festive cheer with my Mum and trying to remember once again the words of Auld Lang Syne as millions around the world will be doing at sometime in the next 31 hours or so.
Could auld Robbie Burns ever have dreamt what a poignant impact his most famous song would have every January 1st come bong time, that strangely resonant hour of midnight when the most famous clock bell in the world, Big Ben, tolls the death knell for the old year? Moments later tonight, the noisiest pyrotecnhics will welcome in the new baby which has already been named: Anno Domini 2005.
So, assuming this "victory ceremony" has not already been and gone by the time you read this, how are you doing as we head for the finishing line of the tough race which has been A.D. 2004? Will you cross it in amazement like the newly-ennobled Dame Kelly Holmes back in August, one of the most enduringly happy visual images of this year which we now bid farewell to. Or, as the year closes in sombre mood with the continuing horror of events in the Indian Ocean communities, are you waiting for the start of the next big event tomorrow morning?
The news these last few days, understandably, has been of little else but the human tragedies and miracles in the aftermath of the tsunami. It will continue to be so for many of the early days of the new year as the death toll continues to rise well past one hundred thousand. The enormity of what has happened is stunning and tear-jerking, but if the best of the human condition which has been seen in the wake of the floods is to have true meaning, then ordinary life has to go on, even with its moments of joy and personal celebration. It's something Britons know well as the Blitz spirit. It is also very much in the spirit of Christmas and, I pray as we head into a new circuit of days, I hope it's something we will see much more of though please God no more flood horrors.
Whatever the scale of the destruction, and it cannot be under-stated just what an unprecedented natural disaster this is, every life lost had meaning and a value beyond rubies, just as those that remain do. So many islands affected: John Donne's words of centuries ago are more pertinent than ever: "No man is an island...Every man's death diminishes me, for I am involved in humanity. Therefore, send not to ask for whom the bell tolls: it tolls for thee"
FIVE GOLD RINGS
Oh what a surprise the New Year's Honours are -not- at the end of this Olympic year. I'm very pleased for Dame Kelly for this honour which surely crowns her year, along with the knighthood for Sir Matthew Pinsent and most deservedly of all maybe, the royal honour for paralympian Dame Tanni Grey-Thompson.
We may not all possess legs worthy of Wonder Woman like Dame Kelly, or the nation's largest lungs like Sir Matthew, but we all deserve to collect our medals from our maker for whatever the last twelve laps have brought. Christmas is the starting gun for the second chance in the race of life which began with the worst false start ever by Adam. As the starting gun for a new year is raised, Christians are still remembering the celebration of the triumph of life and light over death and darkness which is at the heart of the Christian faith.
Christ is our bugfix!For all its ever-present annoying faults and the often self-caused flaws in its software, Mankind is the most amazing creation of all. The technology which enables me to bring these words to you may be mind-boggling, but nothing can top the complexity of the mind and spirit which makes each human being unique. That was the theme at the heart of the Stephen Spielberg film AI- Artificial Intelligence, shown on BBC ONE last night, which was itself very thought-provoking about the nature of life, love and happiness.
We revel at midnight because we have survived another year; we party because we live and move and have our being. Whether worse for wear after over-indulgent celebration,after pushing a body to its physical limits like our talented sportsmen and women, or enduring tiredness for the sake of the safety of others like aid workers and emergency services, New Year is humanity's celebration of itself, of survival and of promise. New Year may not have been God the creator's chosen feast but I know he too would raise a glass in Heaven at the award-winning performance of each fragile specimen of homo sapiens crossing the line at midnight. I wish you an enjoyable but sensible celebration, and a very happy, peaceful, healthy and prosperous New Year
Could auld Robbie Burns ever have dreamt what a poignant impact his most famous song would have every January 1st come bong time, that strangely resonant hour of midnight when the most famous clock bell in the world, Big Ben, tolls the death knell for the old year? Moments later tonight, the noisiest pyrotecnhics will welcome in the new baby which has already been named: Anno Domini 2005.
So, assuming this "victory ceremony" has not already been and gone by the time you read this, how are you doing as we head for the finishing line of the tough race which has been A.D. 2004? Will you cross it in amazement like the newly-ennobled Dame Kelly Holmes back in August, one of the most enduringly happy visual images of this year which we now bid farewell to. Or, as the year closes in sombre mood with the continuing horror of events in the Indian Ocean communities, are you waiting for the start of the next big event tomorrow morning?
The news these last few days, understandably, has been of little else but the human tragedies and miracles in the aftermath of the tsunami. It will continue to be so for many of the early days of the new year as the death toll continues to rise well past one hundred thousand. The enormity of what has happened is stunning and tear-jerking, but if the best of the human condition which has been seen in the wake of the floods is to have true meaning, then ordinary life has to go on, even with its moments of joy and personal celebration. It's something Britons know well as the Blitz spirit. It is also very much in the spirit of Christmas and, I pray as we head into a new circuit of days, I hope it's something we will see much more of though please God no more flood horrors.
Whatever the scale of the destruction, and it cannot be under-stated just what an unprecedented natural disaster this is, every life lost had meaning and a value beyond rubies, just as those that remain do. So many islands affected: John Donne's words of centuries ago are more pertinent than ever: "No man is an island...Every man's death diminishes me, for I am involved in humanity. Therefore, send not to ask for whom the bell tolls: it tolls for thee"
FIVE GOLD RINGS
Oh what a surprise the New Year's Honours are -not- at the end of this Olympic year. I'm very pleased for Dame Kelly for this honour which surely crowns her year, along with the knighthood for Sir Matthew Pinsent and most deservedly of all maybe, the royal honour for paralympian Dame Tanni Grey-Thompson.
We may not all possess legs worthy of Wonder Woman like Dame Kelly, or the nation's largest lungs like Sir Matthew, but we all deserve to collect our medals from our maker for whatever the last twelve laps have brought. Christmas is the starting gun for the second chance in the race of life which began with the worst false start ever by Adam. As the starting gun for a new year is raised, Christians are still remembering the celebration of the triumph of life and light over death and darkness which is at the heart of the Christian faith.
Christ is our bugfix!For all its ever-present annoying faults and the often self-caused flaws in its software, Mankind is the most amazing creation of all. The technology which enables me to bring these words to you may be mind-boggling, but nothing can top the complexity of the mind and spirit which makes each human being unique. That was the theme at the heart of the Stephen Spielberg film AI- Artificial Intelligence, shown on BBC ONE last night, which was itself very thought-provoking about the nature of life, love and happiness.
We revel at midnight because we have survived another year; we party because we live and move and have our being. Whether worse for wear after over-indulgent celebration,after pushing a body to its physical limits like our talented sportsmen and women, or enduring tiredness for the sake of the safety of others like aid workers and emergency services, New Year is humanity's celebration of itself, of survival and of promise. New Year may not have been God the creator's chosen feast but I know he too would raise a glass in Heaven at the award-winning performance of each fragile specimen of homo sapiens crossing the line at midnight. I wish you an enjoyable but sensible celebration, and a very happy, peaceful, healthy and prosperous New Year
Thursday, 30 December 2004
On the Fifth Day of Christmas
Or is it? Thursday 29th December might be regarded as the day for H Samuel and jewellers everywhere to cheer with glee as gold ring sales hit the roof and yet more gifts are distributed to true loves everywhere.
But has today been the fifth day, or merely the fourth day of the twelve very welcome days of Christmas? It all depends on whether you count Christmas Day as the first day, or the day after. Some sources, and my own understanding, has always been that Christmas Day stands alone, not as one of the delightful dozen, but others would say it is included. This calculation also leads to the inevitable controversy every January over when the decorations should be down: is Twelfth Night the 5th or the 6th? The sixth is certainly Epiphany, when the wise men appeared to Jesus, but in the Eastern church it is actually Christmas Day!
It all gets very perplexing, like so much else at this time of the year. Those who believe silly superstitions would certainly say you have to have your decorations down by Twelfth Night, or you will have bad "luck" throughout the year. I have no turck with that, and for my part I will keep my little fibre optic tree up in Eastbourne right til the very last minute if I can. However, the Twelve Days tradition is one I rather wish we'd make more of in modern times- especially if it involved a few more parties!
PETER PAN AND THE THREE BEARS
Today was a day to go saleing for me, and once again I took myself off to our best local major shopping centre, Kingston upon Thames. I always like to try to grab a few post-Christmas bargains in the clothes departments, even when as this year it might not come out as such a bargain by the time I've paid interest on credit! However, I did have another reason for visiting Kingston today. It was the swansong performance for this year by one of the town's most enchanting seasonal attractions, the Bentalls Bears. and I could not resist one last chance to see them again, after witnessing their charming animatatronic antics on Christmas Eve too.
The ursine trio of Barney, Amber and Daisy- a name more fitting of the cow which had joined the tableaux this year rather than a definitely boyish bear, if you ask me- have been delighting young visitors to the indoor shopping centre which was built on the site of the famous old Bentall's store with its landmark facade, for around a decade now. I say young visitors, because the little ones are clearly the main target audience -it's a real joy to see the look of delight in their eyes when our furry chums start their half hourly performance of a couple of seasonal songs. However, from experience I think middle-aged adults like me are just as charmed as the little ones by these giant furry friends. So irresistible are they, that I went and saw them no less than three times this afternoon in between my bargain-hunting.
Christmas is a time when I think we can all be justified in trying, for just a while at least, to try to recapture the wonder and enjoyment of life which seems to come so naturally to little children. It's also a time when we can dream of a better world untouched and untarnished by the cruel realities of life from which the innocent and vulnerable juniors of our world can rarely be isolated today.
Around all the other birthdays celebrated over this last week, one which has been deservedly commemorated especially is the centenary last Monday of Peter Pan and the Darling clan. Thanks to the fantastic adventures of J M Barrie's most famous creation, Pan-tomime promoters across the world will once again this year be thrilling audiences young and old with flying boys and gigantic dogs, fancy fairies and glamorous godmothers. We will continue to cheer as the boy who never grew up tries to take his charges away from the trials and tribulations of the adult world to that special place called Neverland.
But every pantomime has to have a villain, and of course in the case of Peter Pan the villain is the evil Captain Hook, with his vicious metal prosthetic hand waiting to reach out and capture his unwary victims. We'll hiss and boo his every appearance, and cheer and clap as our hero comes to the rescue of the young charges and everyone lives happily ever after.
COMING BACK DOWN TO EARTH
If only real life could be like that. The harsh and terrible reality is that 100 000 souls of every nationality and creed will never see another Christmas or enjoy any of the beauties of living and breathing on this homeland we call Earth. Last Sunday's events in the Indian Ocean fractured the fantasy in an instant, and yet somehow it is hard to take in the horrible reality of such an estimated death toll as the result of the earthquake Tsunami. This is already being described as the worst natural disaster ever, and yet there is a sense of the surreal about it which is almost like watching a Hollywood blockbuster. It's very hard to get to grips with the enormity of what has happened, even with the most graphic accounts and startling pictures the like of which have not been seen since 9/11- and I hope never will be again.
If only we could rewind the film on this horrendous event which will inevitably be the main feature on world TV news screens for weeks to come. Or better still, write a happy ending.
The main aid agencies of course are in place and have done their best to respond instantly to the urgent needs of so many people in such disparate societies separated by thousands of miles but united by the awesome and dreadful power of millions of gallons of sea water making landfall across an ocean. Whatever the agencies' efforts might bring in the way of relief of the worst suffering though, inevitably it is rather like trying to put a sticking plaster on a hole in a dam. I've no doubt I will try to do my bit, as will millions upon millions of able individuals around the world. I may have scorned the power of money on Sunday, but it also has the fantastic ability to do good at times like this.
Nevertheless, with an almost unavoidable pun, it is like a drop in the ocean compared to the devastating and incredible scale of the damage caused by the nameless tsunami- more destructive than even the worst of hurricanes can ever have been. If that word was largely unknown to most Westerners a few days ago, it surely is now for the most grim of reasons.
HEAL THE NATIONS, SAVE THE CHILDREN
But every river starts with a tiny spring. If any good can be found in recent events, and what lies ahead, it is perhaps the realisation that we are all interdependent on each other for shelter, sustenance and survival. The merciless speed with which the tidal wave took the lives of so many who were until that point getting on with their everyday life or their holiday of a lifetime, makes one realise with a cold start that life itself is as fragile and vulnerable as a piece of flimsy wrapping paper discarded on Christmas Day.
We could look on like the helpless audience at a panto where disaster strikes and feel where is God in all this. As I said the other day, it can be all too easy to try to come up with a pithy short answer to that, but of course because God is such a mystery, it cannot so easily be explained away. It seems that a huge number of the casualties of this biggest flood, dare I suggest, since Noah, were children- the most precious and the most vulnerable. Could a God of love really allow his children to suffer in this way?
Such questions on the problem of suffering have troubled men of faith for centuries. I wouldn't pretend to have the intellect or the strength of belief to add anything profound or new to what has already been said. What I do know, however, is that Jesus said whoever has faith as small as a mustard seed can move mountains.
Many mountains can potentially be moved in the next twelve months. It's supremely ironic that this time-crucial need for humanitarian assistance comes just on the cusp of Britain taking on the presidency of the G8 group of the world's richest nations, and also the rolling presidency of the EU. Next year, there is to be a special focus on the needs of Africa- a continent whose existing needs already evoke so many tears. But her people will need our help too in these next few months- it's not just Asia which felt the full force of the tsunami, but African nations too on the Indian Ocean seaboard. Indeed, the whole world weeps and the whole world suffers. Maybe the signs of spending and continued enjoyment I saw in Kingston today were actually a psychological effort to re-invigorate spirits fatigued and deadened by just one disaster too many.
The world has enough resources to feed everyone's need, but not everyone's greed. As a Christian, it's my belief that we will never see the true relief of all human suffering until the Lord comes again- and as with countless millions of believers, I pray that will be soon. But that is no excuse for not putting our money where our mouth is, showing love in action, until He come. However small our token, even if it is like the Widow's Mite in the Bible- this frail old lady gave her last penny for the needs of others- we can use it wisely and see it do miracles. Medicine may not yet have come up with the secret of eternal youth, but thanks to J M Barrie assigning the rights of Peter Pan to Great Ormond Street Hospital for Sick Children, countless young lives have been improved and even saved thanks to one person's generosity. One hundred years on, there is a lesson there in selfless giving, child protection and the relief of suffering which we can all learn from. Children see another person's unhappiness, and they are moved to want to bring a smile back to that person's face. My prayer tonight is that the world can bring smiles back to the tear-soaked souls of a score of lands where life can never be the same again after December 2003. Let us bring them our gifts with our true love.
But has today been the fifth day, or merely the fourth day of the twelve very welcome days of Christmas? It all depends on whether you count Christmas Day as the first day, or the day after. Some sources, and my own understanding, has always been that Christmas Day stands alone, not as one of the delightful dozen, but others would say it is included. This calculation also leads to the inevitable controversy every January over when the decorations should be down: is Twelfth Night the 5th or the 6th? The sixth is certainly Epiphany, when the wise men appeared to Jesus, but in the Eastern church it is actually Christmas Day!
It all gets very perplexing, like so much else at this time of the year. Those who believe silly superstitions would certainly say you have to have your decorations down by Twelfth Night, or you will have bad "luck" throughout the year. I have no turck with that, and for my part I will keep my little fibre optic tree up in Eastbourne right til the very last minute if I can. However, the Twelve Days tradition is one I rather wish we'd make more of in modern times- especially if it involved a few more parties!
PETER PAN AND THE THREE BEARS
Today was a day to go saleing for me, and once again I took myself off to our best local major shopping centre, Kingston upon Thames. I always like to try to grab a few post-Christmas bargains in the clothes departments, even when as this year it might not come out as such a bargain by the time I've paid interest on credit! However, I did have another reason for visiting Kingston today. It was the swansong performance for this year by one of the town's most enchanting seasonal attractions, the Bentalls Bears. and I could not resist one last chance to see them again, after witnessing their charming animatatronic antics on Christmas Eve too.
The ursine trio of Barney, Amber and Daisy- a name more fitting of the cow which had joined the tableaux this year rather than a definitely boyish bear, if you ask me- have been delighting young visitors to the indoor shopping centre which was built on the site of the famous old Bentall's store with its landmark facade, for around a decade now. I say young visitors, because the little ones are clearly the main target audience -it's a real joy to see the look of delight in their eyes when our furry chums start their half hourly performance of a couple of seasonal songs. However, from experience I think middle-aged adults like me are just as charmed as the little ones by these giant furry friends. So irresistible are they, that I went and saw them no less than three times this afternoon in between my bargain-hunting.
Christmas is a time when I think we can all be justified in trying, for just a while at least, to try to recapture the wonder and enjoyment of life which seems to come so naturally to little children. It's also a time when we can dream of a better world untouched and untarnished by the cruel realities of life from which the innocent and vulnerable juniors of our world can rarely be isolated today.
Around all the other birthdays celebrated over this last week, one which has been deservedly commemorated especially is the centenary last Monday of Peter Pan and the Darling clan. Thanks to the fantastic adventures of J M Barrie's most famous creation, Pan-tomime promoters across the world will once again this year be thrilling audiences young and old with flying boys and gigantic dogs, fancy fairies and glamorous godmothers. We will continue to cheer as the boy who never grew up tries to take his charges away from the trials and tribulations of the adult world to that special place called Neverland.
But every pantomime has to have a villain, and of course in the case of Peter Pan the villain is the evil Captain Hook, with his vicious metal prosthetic hand waiting to reach out and capture his unwary victims. We'll hiss and boo his every appearance, and cheer and clap as our hero comes to the rescue of the young charges and everyone lives happily ever after.
COMING BACK DOWN TO EARTH
If only real life could be like that. The harsh and terrible reality is that 100 000 souls of every nationality and creed will never see another Christmas or enjoy any of the beauties of living and breathing on this homeland we call Earth. Last Sunday's events in the Indian Ocean fractured the fantasy in an instant, and yet somehow it is hard to take in the horrible reality of such an estimated death toll as the result of the earthquake Tsunami. This is already being described as the worst natural disaster ever, and yet there is a sense of the surreal about it which is almost like watching a Hollywood blockbuster. It's very hard to get to grips with the enormity of what has happened, even with the most graphic accounts and startling pictures the like of which have not been seen since 9/11- and I hope never will be again.
If only we could rewind the film on this horrendous event which will inevitably be the main feature on world TV news screens for weeks to come. Or better still, write a happy ending.
The main aid agencies of course are in place and have done their best to respond instantly to the urgent needs of so many people in such disparate societies separated by thousands of miles but united by the awesome and dreadful power of millions of gallons of sea water making landfall across an ocean. Whatever the agencies' efforts might bring in the way of relief of the worst suffering though, inevitably it is rather like trying to put a sticking plaster on a hole in a dam. I've no doubt I will try to do my bit, as will millions upon millions of able individuals around the world. I may have scorned the power of money on Sunday, but it also has the fantastic ability to do good at times like this.
Nevertheless, with an almost unavoidable pun, it is like a drop in the ocean compared to the devastating and incredible scale of the damage caused by the nameless tsunami- more destructive than even the worst of hurricanes can ever have been. If that word was largely unknown to most Westerners a few days ago, it surely is now for the most grim of reasons.
HEAL THE NATIONS, SAVE THE CHILDREN
But every river starts with a tiny spring. If any good can be found in recent events, and what lies ahead, it is perhaps the realisation that we are all interdependent on each other for shelter, sustenance and survival. The merciless speed with which the tidal wave took the lives of so many who were until that point getting on with their everyday life or their holiday of a lifetime, makes one realise with a cold start that life itself is as fragile and vulnerable as a piece of flimsy wrapping paper discarded on Christmas Day.
We could look on like the helpless audience at a panto where disaster strikes and feel where is God in all this. As I said the other day, it can be all too easy to try to come up with a pithy short answer to that, but of course because God is such a mystery, it cannot so easily be explained away. It seems that a huge number of the casualties of this biggest flood, dare I suggest, since Noah, were children- the most precious and the most vulnerable. Could a God of love really allow his children to suffer in this way?
Such questions on the problem of suffering have troubled men of faith for centuries. I wouldn't pretend to have the intellect or the strength of belief to add anything profound or new to what has already been said. What I do know, however, is that Jesus said whoever has faith as small as a mustard seed can move mountains.
Many mountains can potentially be moved in the next twelve months. It's supremely ironic that this time-crucial need for humanitarian assistance comes just on the cusp of Britain taking on the presidency of the G8 group of the world's richest nations, and also the rolling presidency of the EU. Next year, there is to be a special focus on the needs of Africa- a continent whose existing needs already evoke so many tears. But her people will need our help too in these next few months- it's not just Asia which felt the full force of the tsunami, but African nations too on the Indian Ocean seaboard. Indeed, the whole world weeps and the whole world suffers. Maybe the signs of spending and continued enjoyment I saw in Kingston today were actually a psychological effort to re-invigorate spirits fatigued and deadened by just one disaster too many.
The world has enough resources to feed everyone's need, but not everyone's greed. As a Christian, it's my belief that we will never see the true relief of all human suffering until the Lord comes again- and as with countless millions of believers, I pray that will be soon. But that is no excuse for not putting our money where our mouth is, showing love in action, until He come. However small our token, even if it is like the Widow's Mite in the Bible- this frail old lady gave her last penny for the needs of others- we can use it wisely and see it do miracles. Medicine may not yet have come up with the secret of eternal youth, but thanks to J M Barrie assigning the rights of Peter Pan to Great Ormond Street Hospital for Sick Children, countless young lives have been improved and even saved thanks to one person's generosity. One hundred years on, there is a lesson there in selfless giving, child protection and the relief of suffering which we can all learn from. Children see another person's unhappiness, and they are moved to want to bring a smile back to that person's face. My prayer tonight is that the world can bring smiles back to the tear-soaked souls of a score of lands where life can never be the same again after December 2003. Let us bring them our gifts with our true love.
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