No, TW3 is not my postcode area, though it's not far away and the "Jubilee Mail Centre" through which the pedestrian post passes is even closer to where I sit as I type. This TW3 though was the short acronym affectionately adopted for the BBC's first serious attempt at TV satire in the mid sixties: That Was The Week That Was.
TW3 was daring stuff, even in that decade famed for liberation, though it started before the height of free love and flower power from 1967 onwards. Instead, TW3 blossomed in the wake of the Cuban Missile Crisis at a time when the Cold War was at its peak and concerns about 'Reds in the Bed' were everywhere. No more so in fact than when those reds might have the wrong sort of connections with both KGB officials and Tory Government ministers, as a certain John Profumo -who has just died at the grand age of 91- was to discover at the cost of his career after his brief dalliance with call girl Christine Keiller.
"It's over, let it go", intoned Millicent Martin each week, I gather, at the end of each TW3 show. I say I gather, because I've only seen the show in archive footage, being too young to remember its original screenings. Satire has a long tradition in British life, and indeed my birthplace in the next postcode area was home to one of the most famous political cartoonists of his era, William Hogarth.
Some things in the news though are always more tragic than funny, and to treat them as satire is of very questionable taste. The news in the last seven days has featured two very different groups of people, but each of them precious to the God who made them and so they should be to all right-thinking human beings with any sense of the dignity and sanctity of human life.
At long last, the obscenity which is apparently Guantanamo Bay, the US holding facility in Cuba for alleged terrorist suspects, is back in the public eye. In the face of worldwide condemnation at the indignity of the detention facility and the purported tactics of its staff, the American government has been forced to release the names of detainees, if not the prisoners themselves. Meanwhile, the inmates of "Gitmo" as it has become known are said to be enduring a regime of torturous force-feeding as they attempt to make their protests in desperation by hunger strike.
A week ago, I first heard about this latest outrage on BBC Radio 4's Today programme: for its effect on me, follow the link by clicking on the title of this post, which directs you to the following Saturday's Thought for the Day on the same programme. It was delivered by a friend of mine who knows how to use both humour and the power of the Word as occasion dictates. On this occasion, it's nothing to laugh about.
The same week saw an overdue reminder in the media of other captives equally precious and needing to be remembered. It's now just over one hundred days since the 74-year old British Christian peace campaigner Norman Kember was abducted, along with three of his fellow workers, in the tragic hell hole which is post-war Iraq. Supporters of Mr Kember and his compatriots had been gathering regularly near London's monuments to hard-won liberty to pray and pursue this case of four human beings only seeking the peace and freedom of their fellow human beings. They do so regardless of creeds and colours, or ideologies and isms. They do so out of love.
On Sunday afternoon, I knew I just had to join these supporters. It was the natural complement to my actions last Friday. The fact the vigil ended up being shown on Tuesday's TV news, a day when a recently-filmed video of Mr Kember and the others gave new hope was not what motivated me. Maybe what did, instead, was looking over to the peak of the building opposite the square where around 100 souls stood in liberty to remember four others who are not at liberty.
That building was South Africa House. What greater sign can there be of the ability of a higher power than avarice and hatred to overcome evil as once reigned in that country which became so villified by the world for its policies of division and apartheid. That peak had two words "Good" and "Hope", either side of the embossed image of a sailing ship presumably rounding the cape of the same name, though that day I thought of it rather more as the "Escape of Good Hope".
Human awfulness can often beach us on the shores of desperation but this is because we so often set our course with the wrong sails aloft. Faith, hope and love should power our three-masted schooner to lead us to the sea of tranquility found only in God's harbour.
Yes, sometimes, there will be laughter along the way, often there will seem to be disaster, war and tragedy. But, as one memorable sixties portrayal of Jesus had it, casting the Messiah as a clown, there can be 'happy endings' to the human stories behind Gitmo and Norman Kember et al. As apparently happened for John Profumo in his latter years, there can be release, redemption and even the promise of resurrection in the face of death. And, for those who believe, God will always have the last laugh.
Friday, 10 March 2006
Thursday, 9 March 2006
Snowdrop
Puzzle of the day: what is the image on the left of this blog's masthead supposed to be? Most people I suppose would say, "easy, it's an asterisk of course!" OK, but that's a puzzle in itself: where did the asterisk come from? And no, don't tell me Gaul!
I look at this little symbol in rather more picturesque terms though: I think it's a snowflake or if you prefer, a snowdrop.
Snowdrops from the sky have been a regular sight in many parts of the UK this cold, dark season. We were warned back in the autumn that a long, hard winter lay ahead and the meteoro-prophets seem to have been proved right. It seems like a longer watch than usual for Spring, so I hope Bill Oddie's got plenty of nice hot Thermos flasks with him.
Our perception of time and its passage is an odd thing though, as a BBC TV series is currently examining. Astronomically speaking, Winter is no longer or shorter this year than it has ever been. It still lasts three months. But a succession of mornings scraping the ice from the car or regular TV news footage of kids enjoying themselves in the snow can make the coldest season seem to go on forever.
Perhaps that's why God created the other type of snowdrop, the mini blooming delight which has usually exploded from the ground in the second month of the year. It's a visual delight to the jaded winter eyes of any soul observant enough to spot it's tiny floral form.
Daffodils have a similar effect on me. They are the flower of Wales and of March, and every time I see one my heart fills with joy. Indeed, so fond am I of these yellow-trumpeted splendours that I have one on permanent display in my Eastbourne kitchen in the form of a poster. It bears the wording "But as for me and my household, we will serve the Lord" (Joshua Chapter 24, Verse 15). Amen to that!
Lent is a time of patient waiting. It will always have forty days (OK, it's actually a few more because Sundays don't count but let's not be pedantic!). It can seem long and hard at times, particularly if a favourite activity or food has been forsaken for the duration.
But God has promised he will never leave us or forsake us- even in the darkest days, as I endured in Lent last year during my Mum's final illness. The hope of Springtime is embedded in the DNA of every flower piercing the barrenness of our garden deserts,as the elusive sun heads northwards on its course towards the equator. But the promise of Easter is in every buried bulb bursting from the soil, as new life is offered by the rising son year after year.
I look at this little symbol in rather more picturesque terms though: I think it's a snowflake or if you prefer, a snowdrop.
Snowdrops from the sky have been a regular sight in many parts of the UK this cold, dark season. We were warned back in the autumn that a long, hard winter lay ahead and the meteoro-prophets seem to have been proved right. It seems like a longer watch than usual for Spring, so I hope Bill Oddie's got plenty of nice hot Thermos flasks with him.
Our perception of time and its passage is an odd thing though, as a BBC TV series is currently examining. Astronomically speaking, Winter is no longer or shorter this year than it has ever been. It still lasts three months. But a succession of mornings scraping the ice from the car or regular TV news footage of kids enjoying themselves in the snow can make the coldest season seem to go on forever.
Perhaps that's why God created the other type of snowdrop, the mini blooming delight which has usually exploded from the ground in the second month of the year. It's a visual delight to the jaded winter eyes of any soul observant enough to spot it's tiny floral form.
Daffodils have a similar effect on me. They are the flower of Wales and of March, and every time I see one my heart fills with joy. Indeed, so fond am I of these yellow-trumpeted splendours that I have one on permanent display in my Eastbourne kitchen in the form of a poster. It bears the wording "But as for me and my household, we will serve the Lord" (Joshua Chapter 24, Verse 15). Amen to that!
Lent is a time of patient waiting. It will always have forty days (OK, it's actually a few more because Sundays don't count but let's not be pedantic!). It can seem long and hard at times, particularly if a favourite activity or food has been forsaken for the duration.
But God has promised he will never leave us or forsake us- even in the darkest days, as I endured in Lent last year during my Mum's final illness. The hope of Springtime is embedded in the DNA of every flower piercing the barrenness of our garden deserts,as the elusive sun heads northwards on its course towards the equator. But the promise of Easter is in every buried bulb bursting from the soil, as new life is offered by the rising son year after year.
Wednesday, 8 March 2006
Taking a Second Look..(and a third, and a fourth...)
Now there was me thinking it was only women who'd spend hours trying out a new outfit only to leave the shop unsatisfied!
I've spent much of the morning so far trying out various new looks for this blogspot, using the various templates that are available from the infinite-floored department store of ideas which is Google. I've tried red, I've tried blue, I've tried green- all favourite colours of mine.
OK, superficially they looked appealing in the "mirror" of the Google samples- but try to fit them to my figure, or should I say my words, and they just don't look right on me. However, I did allow a few alterations to my current suit- such as the links now added to your right, and a new profile and description.
Otherwise, we're back to the same template I've been using for most of the last eighteen months, at least for the moment. If any design geeks out there have any bright ideas, I'm open to suggestions. Maybe really though it's weighty words rather than outer clothing I need to change: I'm still working on that one folks, as I attempt to work out my waistline and work out my own salvation too.
In fact, every Lent provides the opportunity to stop and look at ourselves in the mirror of the life of Jesus, who spent forty days listening to the beguiling sales pitch of the tempter, before rejecting it all because he knew he had to put on the garment of rejection. He knew where he had to look for that. It was not to a catwalk nor was it a pec-talk, but his was the most important purchase decision anybody has ever taken in this world- of blood.
The hanger of the cross on Good Friday, where God shed his human clothing in naked awfulness, is where Lent is ultimately focussed. If we fix our eyes on Him, it doesn't matter what we look like on the outside when those spiritually-minded intentions to cut out the fat have failed. Our inner clothing will be transformed; no makeover show could ever do that but a simple decision of faith can.
I've spent much of the morning so far trying out various new looks for this blogspot, using the various templates that are available from the infinite-floored department store of ideas which is Google. I've tried red, I've tried blue, I've tried green- all favourite colours of mine.
OK, superficially they looked appealing in the "mirror" of the Google samples- but try to fit them to my figure, or should I say my words, and they just don't look right on me. However, I did allow a few alterations to my current suit- such as the links now added to your right, and a new profile and description.
Otherwise, we're back to the same template I've been using for most of the last eighteen months, at least for the moment. If any design geeks out there have any bright ideas, I'm open to suggestions. Maybe really though it's weighty words rather than outer clothing I need to change: I'm still working on that one folks, as I attempt to work out my waistline and work out my own salvation too.
In fact, every Lent provides the opportunity to stop and look at ourselves in the mirror of the life of Jesus, who spent forty days listening to the beguiling sales pitch of the tempter, before rejecting it all because he knew he had to put on the garment of rejection. He knew where he had to look for that. It was not to a catwalk nor was it a pec-talk, but his was the most important purchase decision anybody has ever taken in this world- of blood.
The hanger of the cross on Good Friday, where God shed his human clothing in naked awfulness, is where Lent is ultimately focussed. If we fix our eyes on Him, it doesn't matter what we look like on the outside when those spiritually-minded intentions to cut out the fat have failed. Our inner clothing will be transformed; no makeover show could ever do that but a simple decision of faith can.
Sunday, 5 March 2006
Simultaneous transmission
Today's first post to Anyway is a new departure for this blog: a "simulcast" as they're known in broadcasting with my other weblog, RadioFar-far. I woke up around 4.40 and caught what sounded like a very strange programme at first, but I was soon hooked. It was called...
Object of Insane Desire
On BBC progs I'm full of flattery
Perhaps it's time I change my battery
Those bad news shows in t'middle of night
Why sometimes, they give such a fright
The play's the thing, Oor Willie said
Enough to keep me from my bed
A Play of the Week, entirely in rhyme
Quite word perfect, how sublime!
It's really quite fun, this comedy made play, doh!
I thought I was listening to English by Radio
From Bush House controllers, you still can depend
At least for such drama, throughout the weekend
A laptop dilemma, an object of trauma
And heated debate, in the shop getting warmer
This object you see, lest you hadn't guessed
A micro computer, can cause such distress
But some of us know, even PM's like Tony
That in radio terms, there's no-one like Sony
And Short Wave listeners could be quite bereft
Without for their toy, a new ICF
So now must be time, to the wireless to go
And start listening to another show!
(c) Mark A Savage March 2006. Title credit to the author of the play, Marcy Kahan!
If you haven't a clue what I'm on about, check out
http://www.bbc.co.uk/worldservice/programmes/play_of_the_week.shtml
before 11th March.
Although written as a comedy, as is so often the case with the best comic writing it makes some serious points, in this case about our all-consuming...consumerism. Definitely worth a listen if you've time.
Object of Insane Desire
On BBC progs I'm full of flattery
Perhaps it's time I change my battery
Those bad news shows in t'middle of night
Why sometimes, they give such a fright
The play's the thing, Oor Willie said
Enough to keep me from my bed
A Play of the Week, entirely in rhyme
Quite word perfect, how sublime!
It's really quite fun, this comedy made play, doh!
I thought I was listening to English by Radio
From Bush House controllers, you still can depend
At least for such drama, throughout the weekend
A laptop dilemma, an object of trauma
And heated debate, in the shop getting warmer
This object you see, lest you hadn't guessed
A micro computer, can cause such distress
But some of us know, even PM's like Tony
That in radio terms, there's no-one like Sony
And Short Wave listeners could be quite bereft
Without for their toy, a new ICF
So now must be time, to the wireless to go
And start listening to another show!
(c) Mark A Savage March 2006. Title credit to the author of the play, Marcy Kahan!
If you haven't a clue what I'm on about, check out
http://www.bbc.co.uk/worldservice/programmes/play_of_the_week.shtml
before 11th March.
Although written as a comedy, as is so often the case with the best comic writing it makes some serious points, in this case about our all-consuming...consumerism. Definitely worth a listen if you've time.
Friday, 3 March 2006
Radio matters
Just a reminder of my companion blog at www.RadioFar-far.blogspot.com, where I've just published a new posting.
Thursday, 2 March 2006
It isn't over while the fat lady sins
Music's in mind again tonight, but at least the images of rock n'roll in surplices seems to have passed off for the moment. Instead, grand opera is lurking somewhere close by in the Savage thought processes, after hearing of BBC Radio Three's bold decision to transmit the whole of Wagner's Ring Cycle in one day, all fifteen hours of it. It would take an Olympian effort to listen to the whole thing at one sitting I think, but no doubt someone will manage this feat.
Talking of things Olympian, who could forget the tour de force of diva Montserrat Caballe and the late Freddie Mercury in their chart-topper arising out of the 1992 Olympics, their homage to the host city, Barcelona? Farokh Bulsara, to give him his real name, actually spent his latter teenage years living with his parents a mile or so from where I am writing these words- and Brian May went to my junior school! Not a lot of people know that.
The roots of the super sound of Queen may lie here in Middlesex, but the "genesis" of my commitment to Christ came 21 years ago this week, following a holiday in Barcelona. Not that Freddie Mercury had anything to do with it, you understand, but I guess the music he was responsible for might well have been playing on the world's radio stations as I enjoyed a holiday there with a couple of my mates from the British DX Club.
Well, perhaps enjoy is not quite the word for it. Endure might be more appropriate, as on this day back in 85 I had the somewhat comic task of trying to report a crime which had occurred in Spain, in schoolboy French to a non-English policeman at Barcelona airport and occasionally lapsing into German. The hire car which my friends had rented was broken into the night before and some aircraft tickets were stolen, along with my one of my friend's favourite radios and my own 21st birthday present containing half my wardrobe. To cap it all, I wasn't insured.
Such adversity could have ruined a holiday, but although my vacation was ending, my new life was about to begin. One of my friends was an avowed Christian, the other a lapsed believer. Noticing the difference in their temperaments at a time of trouble was a very telling lesson for me, and drew me to want to know more about the faith which kept my Christian buddy so seemingly peaceful despite outward circumstances.
Far from ending my eventful holiday as I waited for my plane to fly me back to the familiar territory of Middlesex, I was actually beginning the greatest adventure of my life, the journey of faith. Barcelona may be an elegant city full of wonderful buildings, but the city Christians are headed for is finer than anything Europe can offer. Indeed, the eternal Holy City is more beautiful than anything Earth can show.
One day, giving account for their sin, that unfashionable word which sums up the basic nature of man, all will be sight-seers in the great auditorium before the whole show's director, at the end of the marathon opera of human history. It won't need a Wagner or a Mercury to put music to the story then, but thank the Lord it will have the happy ending that a survey today shows most people want in their books- or at any rate, even for the vilest offender who truly believes. Give me that ending over musical mythology and fat ladies any day.
Talking of things Olympian, who could forget the tour de force of diva Montserrat Caballe and the late Freddie Mercury in their chart-topper arising out of the 1992 Olympics, their homage to the host city, Barcelona? Farokh Bulsara, to give him his real name, actually spent his latter teenage years living with his parents a mile or so from where I am writing these words- and Brian May went to my junior school! Not a lot of people know that.
The roots of the super sound of Queen may lie here in Middlesex, but the "genesis" of my commitment to Christ came 21 years ago this week, following a holiday in Barcelona. Not that Freddie Mercury had anything to do with it, you understand, but I guess the music he was responsible for might well have been playing on the world's radio stations as I enjoyed a holiday there with a couple of my mates from the British DX Club.
Well, perhaps enjoy is not quite the word for it. Endure might be more appropriate, as on this day back in 85 I had the somewhat comic task of trying to report a crime which had occurred in Spain, in schoolboy French to a non-English policeman at Barcelona airport and occasionally lapsing into German. The hire car which my friends had rented was broken into the night before and some aircraft tickets were stolen, along with my one of my friend's favourite radios and my own 21st birthday present containing half my wardrobe. To cap it all, I wasn't insured.
Such adversity could have ruined a holiday, but although my vacation was ending, my new life was about to begin. One of my friends was an avowed Christian, the other a lapsed believer. Noticing the difference in their temperaments at a time of trouble was a very telling lesson for me, and drew me to want to know more about the faith which kept my Christian buddy so seemingly peaceful despite outward circumstances.
Far from ending my eventful holiday as I waited for my plane to fly me back to the familiar territory of Middlesex, I was actually beginning the greatest adventure of my life, the journey of faith. Barcelona may be an elegant city full of wonderful buildings, but the city Christians are headed for is finer than anything Europe can offer. Indeed, the eternal Holy City is more beautiful than anything Earth can show.
One day, giving account for their sin, that unfashionable word which sums up the basic nature of man, all will be sight-seers in the great auditorium before the whole show's director, at the end of the marathon opera of human history. It won't need a Wagner or a Mercury to put music to the story then, but thank the Lord it will have the happy ending that a survey today shows most people want in their books- or at any rate, even for the vilest offender who truly believes. Give me that ending over musical mythology and fat ladies any day.
Wednesday, 1 March 2006
Wild Thing
Do you know how it is when you get a tune or an image sticks in your head and you just can't shed it? Right now as I write this, I can't help thinking of the guffaw-making episode of The Vicar of Dibley where dippy Alice gets married and one of the songs the church choir sing is the 1977 hit Wild Thing! Sounds an unlikely choice typical of the slowest wit in Dibley, but if you look at the words, it's actually very akin to a hymn of praise to the creator who makes everything- including the wild fowl that are worrying everybody sick at the moment with the spectre of bird flu.
Why did I think of this particular arrangement? Maybe my mind's still thinking about the remarkable Jim Wallis who I heard speak a fortnight ago at LICC on the launch of his new book God's Politics. That man is indeed a prophet that believers and non-believers alike need to hear, both sides of the Pond. He doesn't mince his words, but he's also a regular kind of guy and I was amused to learn that he's married to Joy Carroll, supposedly the real life model on which Dawn French's wonderful lady vicar was based.
More likely though is that I'm thinking of this song because the start of Lent naturally draws us to the Wilderness in which the prophet asked God would build him a safe nest. The wild place, where vicious beasts and scavengers no doubt waited to attack Jesus much the same way as the Devil did for forty days and nights as Jesus wrestled with the temptation to let his his unique gifts and powers run wild.
Thankfully, the carpenter of Nazareth who was to become saviour of the world did not give in to the temptation to abuse his ministry, but by contrast we are still fallible creatures who need to face up to our own wild selves every day and especially during this season.
I've experienced about two and a half months of quite incredible spiritual growth- but I'm still rotten to the core really- like every other being on this planet- without the transforming power of our Lord.
Lent's a time for self-examination, of where we're going, and more importantly why we bother to make the journey in the first place. Along the way we'll no doubt find stumbling blocks, as wise friends have counselled me I may well do as I see the dawning of a new light over my own previously wild, untamed places. But remembering that God loves us beyond measure just as we are, as I was reminded in the sermon at an "Ashing" service tonight at our local parish church, is all the re-assurance I need on the journey. We're being led all the way by an infallible guide who will not let us fall.
Why did I think of this particular arrangement? Maybe my mind's still thinking about the remarkable Jim Wallis who I heard speak a fortnight ago at LICC on the launch of his new book God's Politics. That man is indeed a prophet that believers and non-believers alike need to hear, both sides of the Pond. He doesn't mince his words, but he's also a regular kind of guy and I was amused to learn that he's married to Joy Carroll, supposedly the real life model on which Dawn French's wonderful lady vicar was based.
More likely though is that I'm thinking of this song because the start of Lent naturally draws us to the Wilderness in which the prophet asked God would build him a safe nest. The wild place, where vicious beasts and scavengers no doubt waited to attack Jesus much the same way as the Devil did for forty days and nights as Jesus wrestled with the temptation to let his his unique gifts and powers run wild.
Thankfully, the carpenter of Nazareth who was to become saviour of the world did not give in to the temptation to abuse his ministry, but by contrast we are still fallible creatures who need to face up to our own wild selves every day and especially during this season.
I've experienced about two and a half months of quite incredible spiritual growth- but I'm still rotten to the core really- like every other being on this planet- without the transforming power of our Lord.
Lent's a time for self-examination, of where we're going, and more importantly why we bother to make the journey in the first place. Along the way we'll no doubt find stumbling blocks, as wise friends have counselled me I may well do as I see the dawning of a new light over my own previously wild, untamed places. But remembering that God loves us beyond measure just as we are, as I was reminded in the sermon at an "Ashing" service tonight at our local parish church, is all the re-assurance I need on the journey. We're being led all the way by an infallible guide who will not let us fall.
Tuesday, 28 February 2006
Fat Chews Day
It sounds much better in French, doesn't it: Mardi Gras and Carnival- literally "fat Tuesday" and "without meat".
It's supposed to be the prelude to Lent, forty days where the finer things of life including fat-filled fare are sacrificed for a period of deep contemplation before the joy of Easter. Pancake Day or Shrove Tuesday, as it's known in Britain, was once the occasion when all the forbidden foods of the Lent season, including eggs and fats, were used up conveniently in a frying pan, before the fasting began.
Sadly today, it's largely become just another scoff-up, with little thought for what follows. I'm not denying the enjoyment of a tasty pancake, especially when it's filled with maple syrup or lemon juice, but wouldn't it be good if a few more folk stopped to ask "what's it all about?" not just about what we put in our bellies, but what comes out of our hearts. But that's a subject for chewing over another day.
It's supposed to be the prelude to Lent, forty days where the finer things of life including fat-filled fare are sacrificed for a period of deep contemplation before the joy of Easter. Pancake Day or Shrove Tuesday, as it's known in Britain, was once the occasion when all the forbidden foods of the Lent season, including eggs and fats, were used up conveniently in a frying pan, before the fasting began.
Sadly today, it's largely become just another scoff-up, with little thought for what follows. I'm not denying the enjoyment of a tasty pancake, especially when it's filled with maple syrup or lemon juice, but wouldn't it be good if a few more folk stopped to ask "what's it all about?" not just about what we put in our bellies, but what comes out of our hearts. But that's a subject for chewing over another day.
Saturday, 25 February 2006
Who is my neighbour
No question mark in my posting title: it's a statement. It could be what the Dalek said to his fellow warring wheely bins when asked who owned the strange blue "Police" box about the size of an average human male which had just pitched up next to him.
It is not good for man to be alone; even 900-year old time travellers need their companions on the journey. So why does neighbourliness in 21st century Britain so often appear to be regarded as a quaint phenomenon destined for the dustbin?
It should be the most natural thing in the world to want to know those who breathe the same air as us under the same sky during this all too brief sojourn we call life. Neighbours should indeed be there for one another, both in their troubles and their joys. Something in the human condition cries out for it and we are naturally social creatures.
It's a bizarre paradox then that in 21st century Britain, too many people get to know their neighbours in fiction rather than in person. EastEnders, getting the key to the Queen Vic at 21 this week, challenges Emmerdale and Corrie as the TV ratings hits week after week. And once student life has introduced you to the Neighbours of Ramsay Street, it's very hard to leave- as I've found getting back into the Aussie favourite after seven months working away from Erinsborough.
Why TV soaps should be such a hit is in some ways a mystery to me. You get the most unlikely hatches, matches and despatches and some of the most disreputable characters around prove to be the biggest hit. But maybe the scriptwriters are tuned into a truth which the writers of the Bible knew twenty centuries ago, before even the(fictional) Dr Who was a lad.
People love a good story and they love to meet intriguing characters within the story. We little understand ourselves, yet by another paradox we perhaps wipe a little of the mist from our vanity mirrors every time we get to know somebody else or help them in some practical way. Jesus used this to great effect not so much in paradox as parable, and perhaps one of the best known is that of the "good Samaritan", otherwise known as the "good neighbour".
I've had fun this week helping out a neighbour who's lived across the street for over thirty years. First I got asked to sort out a problem with her phones, while on Thursday I was challenged with some Latin proof-reading of a Christian message delivered before I was born. In return, my brother and I got a very tasty curry, and I found my mouth had more of a fireproof lining than I'd thought!
Thought of reward should never be our motivation for doing some kindly act and indeed it will never get you into heaven, even in a tardis. Love your neighbour, as you love yourself.
It is not good for man to be alone; even 900-year old time travellers need their companions on the journey. So why does neighbourliness in 21st century Britain so often appear to be regarded as a quaint phenomenon destined for the dustbin?
It should be the most natural thing in the world to want to know those who breathe the same air as us under the same sky during this all too brief sojourn we call life. Neighbours should indeed be there for one another, both in their troubles and their joys. Something in the human condition cries out for it and we are naturally social creatures.
It's a bizarre paradox then that in 21st century Britain, too many people get to know their neighbours in fiction rather than in person. EastEnders, getting the key to the Queen Vic at 21 this week, challenges Emmerdale and Corrie as the TV ratings hits week after week. And once student life has introduced you to the Neighbours of Ramsay Street, it's very hard to leave- as I've found getting back into the Aussie favourite after seven months working away from Erinsborough.
Why TV soaps should be such a hit is in some ways a mystery to me. You get the most unlikely hatches, matches and despatches and some of the most disreputable characters around prove to be the biggest hit. But maybe the scriptwriters are tuned into a truth which the writers of the Bible knew twenty centuries ago, before even the(fictional) Dr Who was a lad.
People love a good story and they love to meet intriguing characters within the story. We little understand ourselves, yet by another paradox we perhaps wipe a little of the mist from our vanity mirrors every time we get to know somebody else or help them in some practical way. Jesus used this to great effect not so much in paradox as parable, and perhaps one of the best known is that of the "good Samaritan", otherwise known as the "good neighbour".
I've had fun this week helping out a neighbour who's lived across the street for over thirty years. First I got asked to sort out a problem with her phones, while on Thursday I was challenged with some Latin proof-reading of a Christian message delivered before I was born. In return, my brother and I got a very tasty curry, and I found my mouth had more of a fireproof lining than I'd thought!
Thought of reward should never be our motivation for doing some kindly act and indeed it will never get you into heaven, even in a tardis. Love your neighbour, as you love yourself.
Wednesday, 22 February 2006
Frozen Fish Fingers
How does anyone end up with the name "Clarence Birdseye?" It's a mystery, but the aforementioned gentleman most certainly existed and I'm one of many millions who grew up with the frozen fare he made his name from.
These days, I don't buy fish fingers very often, especially while I'm currently trying to cut down on my calorie intake to shed some of my ample girth. Like too many people in the affluent West though,I'm often thinking of food, which is understandable given that there is such a tempting array of it in super-sized hypermarkets run by the giants of the grocery world in modern Britain.
While there's nothing wrong with variety, particularly when it introduces us to the cuisine of other cultures, much of the problem of the 21st Century World is we have too much choice. We've opened a Pandora's chest freezer which does both our bodies and our spirits no good at all.
Television's love affair with the cookery show is abundant testimony to both the good and the bad in matters culinary. The BBC's latest variation on a theme, which ended its first run last night in between the latest calorie-burning thrills from the frozen rinks and runs of Olympic Italy, is "Two Hairy Bikers". This bizarre pairing, no doubt inspired by the Two Fat Ladies stable of programme making, has actually proved to be a bitter-sweet show, and I'm not talking chocolate or Seville oranges here.
The unlikely duo of two-wheeled Geordie petrolheads have been focussing this fortnight on Romania, a country with a sad past which is still struggling to shake off the evil legacy of Ceaucescu. To the credit of the two hirsute presenters, in between concocting mouth-watering delights they visited a museum about that nation's evil tyrant who met his fate while in a turning- aside West millions feasted on Christmas Day 1989.
The bikers' visit to the museum was an emotional experience not normally associated with indulgent food programmes. One of them understandably vented his anger at how the complicit West yielded to the temptation to eat at the table of this madman, while his actions ended or shattered the lives of millions, not least helpless children, the sight of whose pitiful existence still produces more tears than an onion.
Food fattens, but power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely. Thank God then, that the one who saves our souls from our own awfulness did not yield to the temptation to eat, or even drink, for forty scorching days and frozen nights in the wilderness, which we now commemorate as the Christian season of Lent.
As observance of Lent 2006 rapidly approaches and Britons look forward to the delights of Pancake Day on "Fat Tuesday", I'm glad that the sign of the fish can lead even my frozen fingers this chilly night - our central heating's broken down- to prayer to the one who never yielded to the temptation to sin. He alone was nice but never naughty. Instead, he gave up his life to the hands of an evil regime and an angry, ignorant mob- even forgiving them as he did so. Thanks be to God that as he thawed from the stone-cold tomb, the lives of those who choose to believe in his unique life and name can be preserved for evermore. That's a mystery which should be on every menu.
These days, I don't buy fish fingers very often, especially while I'm currently trying to cut down on my calorie intake to shed some of my ample girth. Like too many people in the affluent West though,I'm often thinking of food, which is understandable given that there is such a tempting array of it in super-sized hypermarkets run by the giants of the grocery world in modern Britain.
While there's nothing wrong with variety, particularly when it introduces us to the cuisine of other cultures, much of the problem of the 21st Century World is we have too much choice. We've opened a Pandora's chest freezer which does both our bodies and our spirits no good at all.
Television's love affair with the cookery show is abundant testimony to both the good and the bad in matters culinary. The BBC's latest variation on a theme, which ended its first run last night in between the latest calorie-burning thrills from the frozen rinks and runs of Olympic Italy, is "Two Hairy Bikers". This bizarre pairing, no doubt inspired by the Two Fat Ladies stable of programme making, has actually proved to be a bitter-sweet show, and I'm not talking chocolate or Seville oranges here.
The unlikely duo of two-wheeled Geordie petrolheads have been focussing this fortnight on Romania, a country with a sad past which is still struggling to shake off the evil legacy of Ceaucescu. To the credit of the two hirsute presenters, in between concocting mouth-watering delights they visited a museum about that nation's evil tyrant who met his fate while in a turning- aside West millions feasted on Christmas Day 1989.
The bikers' visit to the museum was an emotional experience not normally associated with indulgent food programmes. One of them understandably vented his anger at how the complicit West yielded to the temptation to eat at the table of this madman, while his actions ended or shattered the lives of millions, not least helpless children, the sight of whose pitiful existence still produces more tears than an onion.
Food fattens, but power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely. Thank God then, that the one who saves our souls from our own awfulness did not yield to the temptation to eat, or even drink, for forty scorching days and frozen nights in the wilderness, which we now commemorate as the Christian season of Lent.
As observance of Lent 2006 rapidly approaches and Britons look forward to the delights of Pancake Day on "Fat Tuesday", I'm glad that the sign of the fish can lead even my frozen fingers this chilly night - our central heating's broken down- to prayer to the one who never yielded to the temptation to sin. He alone was nice but never naughty. Instead, he gave up his life to the hands of an evil regime and an angry, ignorant mob- even forgiving them as he did so. Thanks be to God that as he thawed from the stone-cold tomb, the lives of those who choose to believe in his unique life and name can be preserved for evermore. That's a mystery which should be on every menu.
Sunday, 19 February 2006
Good morning, and here is the news...
While work continues on the re-launch of Anyway, I've just started a new blog dedicated to one of my main interests and a hobby since boyhood. You'll find it at www.radiofar-far.blogspot.com.
Meanwhile, if you read this in time and are within reach of a TV capable of picking up BBC ONE from the UK, do watch or video my fellow scribe, Brian Draper, who's appearing today on The Heaven and Earth Show , the national broadcaster's main Sunday morning show on issues of faith and ethics.
It promises to be an interesting and stimulating show today, also featuring Jim Wallis, renowned US preacher and commentator on the issues that really matter. He's been much in the news too this week, while he's been over in the UK to launch the British edition of his book God's Politics, a best-seller in the US for over a year.
Meanwhile, after doing what really matters to me on a Sunday morning, I'm off to join my fellow radio anoraks in Reading. Keep reading and listening- and 'Turn Your Radio On' (Ray Stevens, where are you now?) for the good news that's really worth hearing!
Meanwhile, if you read this in time and are within reach of a TV capable of picking up BBC ONE from the UK, do watch or video my fellow scribe, Brian Draper, who's appearing today on The Heaven and Earth Show , the national broadcaster's main Sunday morning show on issues of faith and ethics.
It promises to be an interesting and stimulating show today, also featuring Jim Wallis, renowned US preacher and commentator on the issues that really matter. He's been much in the news too this week, while he's been over in the UK to launch the British edition of his book God's Politics, a best-seller in the US for over a year.
Meanwhile, after doing what really matters to me on a Sunday morning, I'm off to join my fellow radio anoraks in Reading. Keep reading and listening- and 'Turn Your Radio On' (Ray Stevens, where are you now?) for the good news that's really worth hearing!
Friday, 17 February 2006
Me
It never really quite caught on as the ideal product name: "Windows Me." It was the software so adaptable to the needs of individuals in the 21st century that Microsoft wanted everybody to pronounce it as a word rhyming with "twee", rather than initials standing for "Millennium Edition". But I've yet to find anyone who calls the program version I'm using by its proper name, and thanks to Silicon Valley's unquenchable thirst for the next new thing, it's a name that will soon be forgotten anyway with a replacement for its successor Windows XP supposedly due for launch sometime soon. Perhaps Bill Gates got it wrong and people were chronically fatigued at seeing a post-viral software package which always makes me think of a rather unpleasant medical syndrome called Myalgic Encephalomyelitis.
Launches and re-launches. The marketing and ad man's stock in trade. If brevity is the soul of wit, there's often little evidence of wit in the torrents of words gushing "new"" every year from the men and women who invest giga-loads of cash in trying to convince us of the virtues and value of their product, whatever it may be.
Even the humble potato crisp is not immune to the attentions of the marketers. Britain's leading brand has just been foil-wrapped in stylish noughties garb with a new logo and unashamedly chanting the lower fat mantra. Gary Lineker's paymasters no doubt decided to change their image before some nanny in the Food Standards Agency tries to ban us from eating these savoury delights altogether.
Everybody likes a makeover once in a while. It helps to re-vitalise our sometimes drab lives and give new value to the best qualities of old favourites. And it can work as well for the person as for the product, the idea as much as the tangible. But it needs to be done with care and caution, lest we throw out the baby with the bathwater.
This blogspot is, I feel, due for a re-launch. The dis-interested advice of trusted friends has made me realise that my words are not always working for their readers or for me as well as I had intended. Anyway has become far more than I ever imagined it would for me when I first wrote some comments on the Athens Olympics eighteen months ago, and it's been a pleasure to post.
But, just as munching rather too many potato crisps in the past has caused me to pile on the pounds to the extent I've now re-launched my diet, I'd like my first web presence to have less verbal calories and to put more cerebral nutrition into what I do write.
You, dear reader, can be part of my focus group and, no, I am not asking you to pile into a Ford family car to do so. Just hit the "comments" button instead or, if you know me, send an e. Henry Ford may have been a genius in some respects, but he made a big mistake when he tried to limit his buyers to just one colour, black.
Life is neither black, nor white, and its expression can and should come in many colours too. I'm currently on a mission to "sell" my own best points as I seek a new occupational direction, possibly a vocation even, and trimming down the portly forty-something figure is just one aspect of it. But the wisest marketer knows that some things never change and word of mouth can be far more powerful than words of flannel. Google has become the world's most influential company by little else.
The most important launch and re-launch in history happened with little ceremony and unpromising beginnings in a small country in the Middle East at the beginning of the first millennium. Unknown celebrities from afar took two years to reach the launch but knew it was the most important journey they'd ever make. 33 years later the young man they'd come to see was re-branded a blasphemous criminal and given the most excrutiating, humiliating punishment possible at the time. Despite the love and attentions of his backers of three years, his future seemed as hopeless as a well-regarded slimming product did when their name started to sound like a fatal illness. He died.
But the maker of this product knew what he was doing from the beginning. Had he relied on his focus group to fulfil his marketing plan, he would have given up the ghost long ago, just like his own son did when he hung on a cross on the first Good Friday.
Unlikely as it seemed, the death of the old was crucial to the birth of the new. And only this man could then -and still does- point the way to life which makes no false claims, but can be lived to the full with no artificial additives. Its a high-risk strategy, but for millions of believers around the world it's the answer to life, the universe and everything. You'll never find a finer "brand" than the name of Jesus and indeed, if you believe what it says on the "packet" called the Holy Bible, then one day every knee shall bow in his presence. Any way you say it, JC is the name for me.
Launches and re-launches. The marketing and ad man's stock in trade. If brevity is the soul of wit, there's often little evidence of wit in the torrents of words gushing "new"" every year from the men and women who invest giga-loads of cash in trying to convince us of the virtues and value of their product, whatever it may be.
Even the humble potato crisp is not immune to the attentions of the marketers. Britain's leading brand has just been foil-wrapped in stylish noughties garb with a new logo and unashamedly chanting the lower fat mantra. Gary Lineker's paymasters no doubt decided to change their image before some nanny in the Food Standards Agency tries to ban us from eating these savoury delights altogether.
Everybody likes a makeover once in a while. It helps to re-vitalise our sometimes drab lives and give new value to the best qualities of old favourites. And it can work as well for the person as for the product, the idea as much as the tangible. But it needs to be done with care and caution, lest we throw out the baby with the bathwater.
This blogspot is, I feel, due for a re-launch. The dis-interested advice of trusted friends has made me realise that my words are not always working for their readers or for me as well as I had intended. Anyway has become far more than I ever imagined it would for me when I first wrote some comments on the Athens Olympics eighteen months ago, and it's been a pleasure to post.
But, just as munching rather too many potato crisps in the past has caused me to pile on the pounds to the extent I've now re-launched my diet, I'd like my first web presence to have less verbal calories and to put more cerebral nutrition into what I do write.
You, dear reader, can be part of my focus group and, no, I am not asking you to pile into a Ford family car to do so. Just hit the "comments" button instead or, if you know me, send an e. Henry Ford may have been a genius in some respects, but he made a big mistake when he tried to limit his buyers to just one colour, black.
Life is neither black, nor white, and its expression can and should come in many colours too. I'm currently on a mission to "sell" my own best points as I seek a new occupational direction, possibly a vocation even, and trimming down the portly forty-something figure is just one aspect of it. But the wisest marketer knows that some things never change and word of mouth can be far more powerful than words of flannel. Google has become the world's most influential company by little else.
The most important launch and re-launch in history happened with little ceremony and unpromising beginnings in a small country in the Middle East at the beginning of the first millennium. Unknown celebrities from afar took two years to reach the launch but knew it was the most important journey they'd ever make. 33 years later the young man they'd come to see was re-branded a blasphemous criminal and given the most excrutiating, humiliating punishment possible at the time. Despite the love and attentions of his backers of three years, his future seemed as hopeless as a well-regarded slimming product did when their name started to sound like a fatal illness. He died.
But the maker of this product knew what he was doing from the beginning. Had he relied on his focus group to fulfil his marketing plan, he would have given up the ghost long ago, just like his own son did when he hung on a cross on the first Good Friday.
Unlikely as it seemed, the death of the old was crucial to the birth of the new. And only this man could then -and still does- point the way to life which makes no false claims, but can be lived to the full with no artificial additives. Its a high-risk strategy, but for millions of believers around the world it's the answer to life, the universe and everything. You'll never find a finer "brand" than the name of Jesus and indeed, if you believe what it says on the "packet" called the Holy Bible, then one day every knee shall bow in his presence. Any way you say it, JC is the name for me.
Saturday, 11 February 2006
Lovers of the World Unite
Lovers of the world unite; you have nothing to lose but your inhibitions. This could well be the rallying cry of Clinton and Hallmark, Thorntons and Interflora or even Marks and Spencer for the next frantic four days. With Christmas but a distant memory, retailers need a boost to their coffers, especially when the feasting of Easter has to wait until late April this year.
Right on cue, along comes Valentine’s Day and the opportunity to pledge undying love to Mr or Miss Right, with only a little help from the cash card companies. “Hang the expense” seems to be the thinking behind the giving for those that want to pledge their passion – and yet tradition dictates it should all be done anonymously. Not very practical though if you fancy spending a hundred thousand on a night of sweet nothings between yourselves at the Oxo tower, as went on offer this week to London lovers.
This year though, however much is spent, sweethearts and passion-seekers will need to remember their number in a little red book, albeit a well-disguised one. Unforgettable Valentine’s Day has been chosen by the money industry to get normally reticent Britons to wear not just a heart on their sleeve but a PIN. On that date, at least nominally, signatures become a thing of the past as four little numbers hidden in a tiny piece of metal secure the price of love. Woe betide any man or woman who forgets their digits!
It’s just as well then that the numbers that matter to God are things like the number of hairs on our head, every one of which is counted. He could never consign our secret details to the back of a diary or some other anonymous place, and actually he already knows every one, such is the unique identity of his love. In fact, his love was demonstrated in flowers of mourning turned to dancing, in nails rather than PINs. Or, as Charitie L Brooks, an aptly-named Irish hymn writer, put it in the nineteenth century
A great high priest whose name is love
My name is graven on his hands
My name is written on his heart
My life is hid with Christ on high
With Christ my saviour and my God
That kind of love will never be forgotten by numberless Christians, whatever the date.
Right on cue, along comes Valentine’s Day and the opportunity to pledge undying love to Mr or Miss Right, with only a little help from the cash card companies. “Hang the expense” seems to be the thinking behind the giving for those that want to pledge their passion – and yet tradition dictates it should all be done anonymously. Not very practical though if you fancy spending a hundred thousand on a night of sweet nothings between yourselves at the Oxo tower, as went on offer this week to London lovers.
This year though, however much is spent, sweethearts and passion-seekers will need to remember their number in a little red book, albeit a well-disguised one. Unforgettable Valentine’s Day has been chosen by the money industry to get normally reticent Britons to wear not just a heart on their sleeve but a PIN. On that date, at least nominally, signatures become a thing of the past as four little numbers hidden in a tiny piece of metal secure the price of love. Woe betide any man or woman who forgets their digits!
It’s just as well then that the numbers that matter to God are things like the number of hairs on our head, every one of which is counted. He could never consign our secret details to the back of a diary or some other anonymous place, and actually he already knows every one, such is the unique identity of his love. In fact, his love was demonstrated in flowers of mourning turned to dancing, in nails rather than PINs. Or, as Charitie L Brooks, an aptly-named Irish hymn writer, put it in the nineteenth century
A great high priest whose name is love
My name is graven on his hands
My name is written on his heart
My life is hid with Christ on high
With Christ my saviour and my God
That kind of love will never be forgotten by numberless Christians, whatever the date.
Tuesday, 7 February 2006
More than a LICC and a promise
Occasionally, I dedicate these blog postings to individuals; today, my scribings are dedicated indeed to the dedicated, my hard-working, creative and ever-enthusiastic erstwhile colleagues at the London Institute for Contemporary Christianity.
LICC as it is known for short, understandably, or pronounced "lick" by those who have abbreviationophobia has been my employer for the past seven months. Although there have been liberal clues to their identity in these postings, I've hesitated to name them publicly before now. Firstly, because it can be a risky business to talk about your employer on such a publicly-accessible medium as the world wide web, as one employee of a well-known British bookstore chain found to his cost. Secondly, it's a matter of courtesy perhaps to remain tight-fingered on such details.
However, I feel a positive plug for Licc is well overdue through this channel, which is why you'll find out more about them by going to www.licc.org.uk. Licc was the inspired vision of Dr John Stott, CBE (the "gong" came in the 2006 New Year Honours), back in 1982. At an age when many men in secular employment would be thinking of settling down their cardigan and slippers, John Stott's second career was just beginning. Today, in his mid eighties, he remains the life president of the Institute, which is housed in a fine eighteenth century listed chapel in an incongruous setting off London's Oxford Street.
St Peter's chapel itself is an amazing building to work in, with it's classic vaulted ceiling, modelled on several other London churches of the period by James Gibb, a pupil of the inimitable Sir Christopher Wren. Gibbs' church may lack the grandeur of Wren's masterpiece of St Paul's, obviously, but what it lacks in scale it more than makes up for with its sense of peace and spiritual permeability. Used today by a couple of church congregations since ceasing to be a chapel of ease to nearby All Soul's, its main occupancy is to the small but ever-resourceful and busy team of LICC that make up the part-time faculty and full-time administration of its world-famous ministry.
John Stott's is a name renowned throughout the world for his classic evangelical ministry, and he has a string of books to his name expounding on subjects ranging from the skills and arts of preaching to the exposition of many of the bible's 66 books. He is especially renowned for his introductions to Christianity, which remain in print and popular with new and established believers alike.
Dr Stott himself remains a much-admired figure in the institute's history, but the infirmities of age and orders from a doctor to take it easy mean that his preaching these days is somewhat limited. However, his legacy of creative Christian communication lives on in the legacy of his successors, several of whom feature regularly on national radio and TV as Christian commentators. Brian Draper, who merits a mention of his own elsewhere in these blogspots, is but one of them, while Mark Greene, the institute's current executive director, is much in demand for his creative, insightful teaching (he is a former principal of the London School of Theology, formerly London Bible College) honed through his many years working in advertising both sides of the pond.
In recent years, the focus of LICC has been on the important concept of "Whole-life discipleship", the idea that you cannot compartmentalise the Christian life into the sacred and the secular but, actually, every moment of every day matters to God and a follower of Jesus is actually a Full Time Christian Worker. Not that this need be an onerous responsibility; it can be remarkably liberating, fun and fruitful, but can be a challenge to live out at times, particularly in the workplace. This is well catered for by another of LICC's current emphases.
This is the sort of background against which yours truly has been privileged to work since the summer of 2005. Sadly, the time has come to move on, but I go with many happy memories of the many events and people I have met in my brief but very rewarding time with LICC. Indeed, I'd go so far as to say that the colleagues with whom I have worked have been among the most loving I've ever encountered. As followers of Jesus, if their faith means anything, how could it be otherwise? Oh, not perfect of course- far from it, and just like me.
The London Institute's ideas and insight, their commitment and enthusiasm are the exact opposite of one dictionary's definition of that rather strange feline-inspired phrase " a lick and a promise".: A superficial effort made without care or enthusiasm. Rather, the whole team give their contribution to carry out John Stott's original and highly quotable idea of what Christians should be doing which he termed "double listening" - listening to the Word of God, AND to the world. With its attention to the complex issues of 21st Century culture, coupled with the historic mission of Christianity which aims to reach a nation for Christ, long may their mission prosper.
If you're a seeker or a follower, why not follow the link and learn more about LICC today, from its regular Monday evening public events dealing with everything from CS Lewis to a destiny beyond death, to bi-weekly words of inspiration and insight from its team of knowledgeable and highly readable writers, to its latest venture, the Imagine project, which has the bold challenge to Imagine how we can reach the UK. With prayer, and with pounds and even more with power- from God, it can be done. That's not just a hope, it's a promise. And organisations like the London Institute will do their utmost never to stop working at winning, until the salvation of a nation is licked.
LICC as it is known for short, understandably, or pronounced "lick" by those who have abbreviationophobia has been my employer for the past seven months. Although there have been liberal clues to their identity in these postings, I've hesitated to name them publicly before now. Firstly, because it can be a risky business to talk about your employer on such a publicly-accessible medium as the world wide web, as one employee of a well-known British bookstore chain found to his cost. Secondly, it's a matter of courtesy perhaps to remain tight-fingered on such details.
However, I feel a positive plug for Licc is well overdue through this channel, which is why you'll find out more about them by going to www.licc.org.uk. Licc was the inspired vision of Dr John Stott, CBE (the "gong" came in the 2006 New Year Honours), back in 1982. At an age when many men in secular employment would be thinking of settling down their cardigan and slippers, John Stott's second career was just beginning. Today, in his mid eighties, he remains the life president of the Institute, which is housed in a fine eighteenth century listed chapel in an incongruous setting off London's Oxford Street.
St Peter's chapel itself is an amazing building to work in, with it's classic vaulted ceiling, modelled on several other London churches of the period by James Gibb, a pupil of the inimitable Sir Christopher Wren. Gibbs' church may lack the grandeur of Wren's masterpiece of St Paul's, obviously, but what it lacks in scale it more than makes up for with its sense of peace and spiritual permeability. Used today by a couple of church congregations since ceasing to be a chapel of ease to nearby All Soul's, its main occupancy is to the small but ever-resourceful and busy team of LICC that make up the part-time faculty and full-time administration of its world-famous ministry.
John Stott's is a name renowned throughout the world for his classic evangelical ministry, and he has a string of books to his name expounding on subjects ranging from the skills and arts of preaching to the exposition of many of the bible's 66 books. He is especially renowned for his introductions to Christianity, which remain in print and popular with new and established believers alike.
Dr Stott himself remains a much-admired figure in the institute's history, but the infirmities of age and orders from a doctor to take it easy mean that his preaching these days is somewhat limited. However, his legacy of creative Christian communication lives on in the legacy of his successors, several of whom feature regularly on national radio and TV as Christian commentators. Brian Draper, who merits a mention of his own elsewhere in these blogspots, is but one of them, while Mark Greene, the institute's current executive director, is much in demand for his creative, insightful teaching (he is a former principal of the London School of Theology, formerly London Bible College) honed through his many years working in advertising both sides of the pond.
In recent years, the focus of LICC has been on the important concept of "Whole-life discipleship", the idea that you cannot compartmentalise the Christian life into the sacred and the secular but, actually, every moment of every day matters to God and a follower of Jesus is actually a Full Time Christian Worker. Not that this need be an onerous responsibility; it can be remarkably liberating, fun and fruitful, but can be a challenge to live out at times, particularly in the workplace. This is well catered for by another of LICC's current emphases.
This is the sort of background against which yours truly has been privileged to work since the summer of 2005. Sadly, the time has come to move on, but I go with many happy memories of the many events and people I have met in my brief but very rewarding time with LICC. Indeed, I'd go so far as to say that the colleagues with whom I have worked have been among the most loving I've ever encountered. As followers of Jesus, if their faith means anything, how could it be otherwise? Oh, not perfect of course- far from it, and just like me.
The London Institute's ideas and insight, their commitment and enthusiasm are the exact opposite of one dictionary's definition of that rather strange feline-inspired phrase " a lick and a promise".: A superficial effort made without care or enthusiasm. Rather, the whole team give their contribution to carry out John Stott's original and highly quotable idea of what Christians should be doing which he termed "double listening" - listening to the Word of God, AND to the world. With its attention to the complex issues of 21st Century culture, coupled with the historic mission of Christianity which aims to reach a nation for Christ, long may their mission prosper.
If you're a seeker or a follower, why not follow the link and learn more about LICC today, from its regular Monday evening public events dealing with everything from CS Lewis to a destiny beyond death, to bi-weekly words of inspiration and insight from its team of knowledgeable and highly readable writers, to its latest venture, the Imagine project, which has the bold challenge to Imagine how we can reach the UK. With prayer, and with pounds and even more with power- from God, it can be done. That's not just a hope, it's a promise. And organisations like the London Institute will do their utmost never to stop working at winning, until the salvation of a nation is licked.
Sunday, 5 February 2006
Seven Days without X Makes One Weak
Now that's caught your attention, hasn't it! Quiet at the back there! What can the rambling Savage be going on about today; surely he's not about to launch into sordid territory here?
Quite right- not my style at all, though latest statistics do seem to show that married men and those who enjoy their marriage to the full live longer and are happier than unmarried men. Oh dear, time I start feeling like Marvin the paranoid Android again, maybe? Pass the Prozac, brother? Certainly not. Maybe Miss Right is still out there for me, but finding her is not the most important task in my life.
So what's X the unknown tonight then? Seven days without singing maybe? Mmm, listening to the dirge which passes for entertainment from some of our TV wannabees or even accomplished singers- sacred or secular- makes that questionable. But actually, research does show that singing is good for you, and who am I to disagree. I've inherited my late Mum's love of a good warble and it's one of the things that keeps Sunday special for me to sing a belting hymn, chorus or too. Indeed, church music can be full of surprises. Tonight, I was surprisingly delighted to hear- and later to sing- that classic Amazing Grace, to the tune of the Animals' old hit House of the Rising Sun. Clearly someone learning a lesson from William Booth here: why should the Devil have all the best tunes. It works amazingly well!
Seven days without beer or wine prompting lassitude, maybe? No, I can't agree with that either, though I enjoy my little tipples in moderation. My brother recently joined the Tesco wine club: both of us enjoy our Sunday sampling of the fruit of the vine but we must be careful not to become wine snobs.
Seven days without laughter? Could that be it? Well, there's not much to laugh about in the news at the moment, really. Tragedy in the Red Sea, where hundreds of poor souls drowned in a ferry accident; continuing tension in the Middle East and disturbing Muslim outrage at the publication of cartoons depicing the prophet. Even satire is dangerous territory, it seems, though Britain's masters of this genre must be as relieved as we believers that the bill which could have outlawed poking fun at religion or even preaching the gospel in some contexts, was defeated earlier this week. Ironically, the bill was lost for want of the vote of a certain Anthony Charles Lynton Blair.
Certainly, Christians who take their faith seriously can laugh at its excesses and themselves as heartily as the satirists, without ever compromising the heart of it, a liberating, tender relationship with God. That is a precious freedom which needs to be preserved at all costs.
Seven days without Big Brother maybe? Well, thank goodness, the annual farce which is Celebrity Big Brother is over for another twelve months, but it won't be long before another dose of throwing them to the lions, or should that be the lens, returns in some other guise. Anyone in the public eye is fair game these days, it seems.
Perhaps, then, seven days without blogging makes one weak? At least, that could be the conclusion from research this week which purports to show the benefits of sharing your thoughts, opinions and frustrations on the net for one and all. The computer monitor has become the new confessional. I can't deny I much enjoy writing these postings on a regular basis, but I think one look at the dates they've been published show that I don't rely on them for my spiritual well-being and to get all my frustrations off my chest. That's not to say those frustrations are not there, mind, particularly this week when I face big uncertainty again over where I'll be earning my living and, I hope, fulfilling at least part of my vocation from now on. But that's still in God's hands at the moment.
Which brings us back to the opening question and what must be my final answer- even if it doesn't bring the questionable riches bestowed on three Europeans this weekend as the Euro Millions multi-rolledover jackpot was finally won. Seven days without PRAYER makes one weak; I can't claim it as an original pun, but it's as true as ever. Prayer is the lifeblood of the believer and, actually, many would argue that it's a natural human instinct to pray- though the method of doing it and to whom it's will of course vary. It's been compared to breathing, actually- and without breathing, we wouldn't just be weak, we'd be dead- and very rapidly. So not just seven days, but seven hours, without prayer can make one weak. That's one reason I have so enjoyed the daily prayer meetings at my current employer- and why I should so miss them if I have to leave my employment there later this week.
I try now to include deep prayer as part of my routine in some form every day- and it doesn't have to be formulaic, oft-repeated or liturgical for it to be efficacious. True prayer is sharing your heart with God, the Father of the universe and the most important person in any life. Anyone that seeks to grow spiritually should spend more time in prayer, difficult though it is with our modern lifestyle. If you seek to be no longer weak, spare a prayer and you'll find your strength renewed. Who needs press-ups when you can pray up!
Quite right- not my style at all, though latest statistics do seem to show that married men and those who enjoy their marriage to the full live longer and are happier than unmarried men. Oh dear, time I start feeling like Marvin the paranoid Android again, maybe? Pass the Prozac, brother? Certainly not. Maybe Miss Right is still out there for me, but finding her is not the most important task in my life.
So what's X the unknown tonight then? Seven days without singing maybe? Mmm, listening to the dirge which passes for entertainment from some of our TV wannabees or even accomplished singers- sacred or secular- makes that questionable. But actually, research does show that singing is good for you, and who am I to disagree. I've inherited my late Mum's love of a good warble and it's one of the things that keeps Sunday special for me to sing a belting hymn, chorus or too. Indeed, church music can be full of surprises. Tonight, I was surprisingly delighted to hear- and later to sing- that classic Amazing Grace, to the tune of the Animals' old hit House of the Rising Sun. Clearly someone learning a lesson from William Booth here: why should the Devil have all the best tunes. It works amazingly well!
Seven days without beer or wine prompting lassitude, maybe? No, I can't agree with that either, though I enjoy my little tipples in moderation. My brother recently joined the Tesco wine club: both of us enjoy our Sunday sampling of the fruit of the vine but we must be careful not to become wine snobs.
Seven days without laughter? Could that be it? Well, there's not much to laugh about in the news at the moment, really. Tragedy in the Red Sea, where hundreds of poor souls drowned in a ferry accident; continuing tension in the Middle East and disturbing Muslim outrage at the publication of cartoons depicing the prophet. Even satire is dangerous territory, it seems, though Britain's masters of this genre must be as relieved as we believers that the bill which could have outlawed poking fun at religion or even preaching the gospel in some contexts, was defeated earlier this week. Ironically, the bill was lost for want of the vote of a certain Anthony Charles Lynton Blair.
Certainly, Christians who take their faith seriously can laugh at its excesses and themselves as heartily as the satirists, without ever compromising the heart of it, a liberating, tender relationship with God. That is a precious freedom which needs to be preserved at all costs.
Seven days without Big Brother maybe? Well, thank goodness, the annual farce which is Celebrity Big Brother is over for another twelve months, but it won't be long before another dose of throwing them to the lions, or should that be the lens, returns in some other guise. Anyone in the public eye is fair game these days, it seems.
Perhaps, then, seven days without blogging makes one weak? At least, that could be the conclusion from research this week which purports to show the benefits of sharing your thoughts, opinions and frustrations on the net for one and all. The computer monitor has become the new confessional. I can't deny I much enjoy writing these postings on a regular basis, but I think one look at the dates they've been published show that I don't rely on them for my spiritual well-being and to get all my frustrations off my chest. That's not to say those frustrations are not there, mind, particularly this week when I face big uncertainty again over where I'll be earning my living and, I hope, fulfilling at least part of my vocation from now on. But that's still in God's hands at the moment.
Which brings us back to the opening question and what must be my final answer- even if it doesn't bring the questionable riches bestowed on three Europeans this weekend as the Euro Millions multi-rolledover jackpot was finally won. Seven days without PRAYER makes one weak; I can't claim it as an original pun, but it's as true as ever. Prayer is the lifeblood of the believer and, actually, many would argue that it's a natural human instinct to pray- though the method of doing it and to whom it's will of course vary. It's been compared to breathing, actually- and without breathing, we wouldn't just be weak, we'd be dead- and very rapidly. So not just seven days, but seven hours, without prayer can make one weak. That's one reason I have so enjoyed the daily prayer meetings at my current employer- and why I should so miss them if I have to leave my employment there later this week.
I try now to include deep prayer as part of my routine in some form every day- and it doesn't have to be formulaic, oft-repeated or liturgical for it to be efficacious. True prayer is sharing your heart with God, the Father of the universe and the most important person in any life. Anyone that seeks to grow spiritually should spend more time in prayer, difficult though it is with our modern lifestyle. If you seek to be no longer weak, spare a prayer and you'll find your strength renewed. Who needs press-ups when you can pray up!
Sunday, 29 January 2006
Whacked!
Not a post on the current national campaign in the UK to ban the smacking of children, even by their parents. Nor am I complaining that I'm tired, though Sunday's the best day of the week for a lie in and another nap later- it's well named the day of rest.
My "whacking" came courtesy of that magnificent beast which is Google, who own the gigabytes of storage space you're now reading alongside the world's most popular search engine. I've been Googlewhacked!
Laud Google as we may, it's not a perfect search engine, if such a commodity can ever exist. I think it would be a sad day for mankind, really, if just by inputting a word or two into a computer you could find the sum of all knowledge on everything known to man. When I was a young lad of 9 or 10, I remember the dreams I had with my friend Michael over the road about putting together a book which would contain absolutely every bit of knowledge ever, ever, ever. Maybe at that tender age, we were just aspirant encyclopaedia salesmen both.
Algorithms and sophisticated computer code can do its best, but it can still be beaten. That's the fun and the challenge of the strange new pursuit of "Googlewhacking". The object? To find any two search terms which, when grouped together, produce only a single hit on Google.
Much to my amazement, that's what happened to me after a quick check on the sitemeter at the bottom of this page a week ago. Someone somewhere had keyed in a search in cyrillic for "Andry Moneyphilia": Anglicise that, and much to my amazement it brought up only a page in this blog which contained the words "Andrew" and "Moneyphilia" in close proximity.
Of course, it won't work now, because I've done the search myself- there should be at least two hits there. But maybe it shows the way to win the game- come up with a neologism or a contrived word like "moneyphilia" and link it with a common or garden male name! Try it and see- it's a great way to waste time on a chilly Sunday morning.
Yet there are still so many things I find you can't always track down on Google. My question to leave you with this morning is: whatever happened to Tivvy? Does anyone remember him? And can you Google me an answer? I'm not talking about Tiverton Town football club either!
But the truth is out there, or should it be out, where? It's been a week for a lot of revelations which some would say have no place in the public domain- nobody's business. Does it all really matter what politicians get up to in their private lives, or when closeted together with other wannabees and nobodies in an ersatz house on a studio lot in Elstree close by the faux square which masquerades as a part of Walford, E20.
What really matters is how we behave towards each other in this brief span of years we get given on this planet, in other words how we love, not who we bed. It's how we show Respect towards our fellow men and women and above all to God. It's turning the other cheek when we are whacked, literally, or going the extra mile when we are tired and whacked, figuratively. It's the most rewarding thing on earth, and that's why I must leave you now to go and learn a little bit more of the googol of things there are to know about Him which make Sunday morning the time for church. Thank Heavens that his search engine always hits the heart with delightful, life-changing results!
My "whacking" came courtesy of that magnificent beast which is Google, who own the gigabytes of storage space you're now reading alongside the world's most popular search engine. I've been Googlewhacked!
Laud Google as we may, it's not a perfect search engine, if such a commodity can ever exist. I think it would be a sad day for mankind, really, if just by inputting a word or two into a computer you could find the sum of all knowledge on everything known to man. When I was a young lad of 9 or 10, I remember the dreams I had with my friend Michael over the road about putting together a book which would contain absolutely every bit of knowledge ever, ever, ever. Maybe at that tender age, we were just aspirant encyclopaedia salesmen both.
Algorithms and sophisticated computer code can do its best, but it can still be beaten. That's the fun and the challenge of the strange new pursuit of "Googlewhacking". The object? To find any two search terms which, when grouped together, produce only a single hit on Google.
Much to my amazement, that's what happened to me after a quick check on the sitemeter at the bottom of this page a week ago. Someone somewhere had keyed in a search in cyrillic for "Andry Moneyphilia": Anglicise that, and much to my amazement it brought up only a page in this blog which contained the words "Andrew" and "Moneyphilia" in close proximity.
Of course, it won't work now, because I've done the search myself- there should be at least two hits there. But maybe it shows the way to win the game- come up with a neologism or a contrived word like "moneyphilia" and link it with a common or garden male name! Try it and see- it's a great way to waste time on a chilly Sunday morning.
Yet there are still so many things I find you can't always track down on Google. My question to leave you with this morning is: whatever happened to Tivvy? Does anyone remember him? And can you Google me an answer? I'm not talking about Tiverton Town football club either!
But the truth is out there, or should it be out, where? It's been a week for a lot of revelations which some would say have no place in the public domain- nobody's business. Does it all really matter what politicians get up to in their private lives, or when closeted together with other wannabees and nobodies in an ersatz house on a studio lot in Elstree close by the faux square which masquerades as a part of Walford, E20.
What really matters is how we behave towards each other in this brief span of years we get given on this planet, in other words how we love, not who we bed. It's how we show Respect towards our fellow men and women and above all to God. It's turning the other cheek when we are whacked, literally, or going the extra mile when we are tired and whacked, figuratively. It's the most rewarding thing on earth, and that's why I must leave you now to go and learn a little bit more of the googol of things there are to know about Him which make Sunday morning the time for church. Thank Heavens that his search engine always hits the heart with delightful, life-changing results!
Friday, 27 January 2006
Forty
No, my heading doesn't come because I'm celebrating reaching two score years, sadly. Read my profile and you'll soon be disavailed of that notion. Nor is it the number of this post- apparently, I've now committed 132 collections of my verbal meanderings to cyberspace. Quite prolific I suppose, but nothing like the output of some of the world's most famous musicians and writers. It's over two centuries since his death, but there can scarcely be a country where this musical superman's works are not being played somewhere right now. If my words could stand the test of time the way his symphonies, operas and sacred musical compositions have,I'd be a happy bunny indeed.
Friday was Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart's 250th birthday, but in Salzburg the party's only just begun. Were he not buried in a pauper's grave, he'd be remarkably well preserved for his age. But his music, if not his body, certainly is. The attention and the adulation that will be showered on Austria's most famous musical son this next year are more than justified by the quite extra-ordinary range of his music, made even the more magnificent by the prodigious age at which he started composing and playing it.
There was, of course, much media coverage of the anniversary yesterday, and BBC Four TV whiled away the night hours with a five hour concert hosted by the EBU (European Broadcasting Union) featuring a wide selection of the great man's output. Among the more interesting Mozart matters though was the little known connection between WAM and my late musical mother's birthplace of Kent. Mozart passed through here in his young life and played concerts in the Garden of England in between his appearances before royalty and an adoring public in London. Meanwhile, yesterday in a Canterbury primary school, children as young as six were being introduced to the finer nuances of Mozart's symphonies, much to their enjoyment.
For many of these children, the head said, it was their first experience of live classical music. But I bet it wasn't their introduction to Mozart; how many of them, for instance, had been singing "Twinkle, twinkle, little star" since they were tots, unaware it was composed by the Austrian wunderkind? I was a little bit older than them, however, when I first started to enjoy the music of Mozart, thanks to a one-hit wonder called Waldo De Los Rios. His interpretation of "Mozart Forty" had the rare distinction for a classical composition of reaching the top ten, sometime in the seventies I think.
Unless you're a (Nigel) Kennedy or a Mylene Klass- just awarded the prestigious Sunday morning slot on Classic FM recently vacated by one-time boy treble Aled Jones who's defected to Radio Two- it's likely that the musical preferences of most kids soon turn to boy bands or girl groups, rebellious rock and loud lyrics. I then must have seemed something of a weird kid when the kind of music that soothed this Savage breast through my teen years was generally the light music that was filling most of the airtime on BBC Radio 2 , and still does if only on a Sunday evening when the grey zone takes over with music to soothe the more mature audience over their cocoa and biscuits. Melodies for You, Your Hundred Best Tunes and the seemingly ageless David Jacobs are the kind of programmes I mean. As long as they continue to be there, like a warm bath on the sabbath evening before school the next day, there's hope for civilized life.
Music unites like few other emotionally-led factors can, which is why two centuries after Mozart's birth, his life and his story is still Salzburg's biggest, albeit most expensive, tourist asset. I've never visited Austria, but maybe this might be the year to do it. From Mozart to Von Trapp, the Eastern Kingdom has a musical legacy which will last forever and to share in it is a pleasure open to all through the simple joys of making music together.
But music can also be divisive of course, at least of the generations. Was it fear that my parents might not approve which meant I was 25 before I really got into listening to rock music seriously? Living at home til I was 28 certainly made me more wary of discovering and enjoying my own tastes than I can now, but yesterday I made a point of having a bit of a music fest with my trusty turntable while I was at my flat in Sussex. Of course I'd had plenty of exposure to the more populist stuff through my radio listening hobby, and the assistance of the likes of Mike Read and Steve Wright on the kitchen radio, making my pot-washing labours a little more endurable while I worked in catering for seven years. Boy George I guess is the sound I most remember from that era, and a beautiful but rather dippy girl colleague who was forever singing Karma Chamelon. Now whatever happened to Gary Davies, another star DJ of that era,I wonder?
Interestingly, it was at the same time that I became a Christian I first got into some of the names my contemporaries had been enjoying among their chums for nearly a decade. Slightly ironic, that, but that period of my life, like now, seemed to release in me an ability to be myself and enjoy life to the full too - in music and in companionship. Had I been a more sociable schoolboy, I expect I would have done so much earlier while at school too, though I remember well the oft-repeated sound of Peter Frampton and Genesis on the sixth form record player.
Then, circa 1985, my mate Andrew introduced me to a certain Irish group called U2 and said one reason he liked them were that they were Christians. As he was working in the radio industry at the time, Andrew had a unique opportunity to listen to all the best sounds, as well as some of the worst- the chuck outs from some of that period still populate my record and CD library! But it's funny how these musical memories can stick so much and you get a sudden urge to listen to or sing them again; on Thursday morning, in the shower, another "Forty" came to mind, and I desperately wanted to sing and hear it again! U2's unique treatment of one of the Psalms is brilliant. It kind of sums up in minim, quaver and semi-breve what I was doing while I was only semi-breathing spiritually until a few weeks ago, how I quavered or maybe quivered at who I thought I was and being too minimalist in my understanding of the riches of God's love for me, and for you, too.
I couldn't get my fix of U2 in Middlesex, as most of my record collection is still in my other place, so I was glad yesterday to make a point of listening to it when I was in Sussex. But still no Forty. Where is it- I want it! Never mind, the day was full of musical surprises and delights, as I listened again to the first LP I was ever given, on my sixteenth birthday- more of that light music stuff but especially the original piece with its funky phasing used at closedown and start-up by Radio One- called, you've guessed it, Theme One. Of course, there had to be some Mozart yeterday too, and when I put on a U2 EP of The Unforgettable Fire- betraying its age by the pre-barcode Boots price sticker - I got my first hearing for a while of Bass Trap, a wonderful instrumental by Bono and Co. When it comes to U2 favourites though, can I name one? Difficult. Close contest between New Year's Day, Forty and the one which I think best describes my own experience: I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For.
Some now question the present Christian credentials of U2, especially since Bono became world superstar and joint expressor supreme with Sir Bob Geldof of the plight of the poor of the world. He's been on the campaigning trail again this week, in pursuit of the great and the good at Davos, Switzerland at the World Economic Forum- not so very far from Salzburg, Austria where some rich folk will let go of their Euros for the rest of the year, unheeding of the irony that it takes music to fight poverty, yet this greatest of classical geniuses himself died penniless. Maybe his own requiems can serve as his eulogy,but as long as poverty and human depravity remain, as remembered on Holocaust Memorial Day which also fell on Mozart's birthday, the world will need the solemn sounds of the Hebrew prayer for the
dead too in its songs to counteract the joyful exclamations of Mozart at his most lyrical and his operas at their most comically absurd, like life itself. Until the Lord comes again, we will need to wait patiently for him, when we can sing a new song. He inclines to us, and hears our cries, in music whether of exaltation or mourning. And he sets our feet on a rock every bit as permanent as a Salzburg, a mountain of salt.
.This posting's dedication is for my mate Brian Draper, U2 fan par excellence and regular contributor to their official sites. He's currently doing the Saturday Thought for the Day on Radio 4 -one more to go in the current series- and is imminently approaching his 37th birthday. Ah, I remember that- alright for some for whom forty has yet to come! Brian's new book Searching 4 Faith is a recommended read if you're asking questions about Christianity- but meanwhile, if you want to share any thoughts or indeed have a burning question you want to express, hit that comments button right now!
Friday was Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart's 250th birthday, but in Salzburg the party's only just begun. Were he not buried in a pauper's grave, he'd be remarkably well preserved for his age. But his music, if not his body, certainly is. The attention and the adulation that will be showered on Austria's most famous musical son this next year are more than justified by the quite extra-ordinary range of his music, made even the more magnificent by the prodigious age at which he started composing and playing it.
There was, of course, much media coverage of the anniversary yesterday, and BBC Four TV whiled away the night hours with a five hour concert hosted by the EBU (European Broadcasting Union) featuring a wide selection of the great man's output. Among the more interesting Mozart matters though was the little known connection between WAM and my late musical mother's birthplace of Kent. Mozart passed through here in his young life and played concerts in the Garden of England in between his appearances before royalty and an adoring public in London. Meanwhile, yesterday in a Canterbury primary school, children as young as six were being introduced to the finer nuances of Mozart's symphonies, much to their enjoyment.
For many of these children, the head said, it was their first experience of live classical music. But I bet it wasn't their introduction to Mozart; how many of them, for instance, had been singing "Twinkle, twinkle, little star" since they were tots, unaware it was composed by the Austrian wunderkind? I was a little bit older than them, however, when I first started to enjoy the music of Mozart, thanks to a one-hit wonder called Waldo De Los Rios. His interpretation of "Mozart Forty" had the rare distinction for a classical composition of reaching the top ten, sometime in the seventies I think.
Unless you're a (Nigel) Kennedy or a Mylene Klass- just awarded the prestigious Sunday morning slot on Classic FM recently vacated by one-time boy treble Aled Jones who's defected to Radio Two- it's likely that the musical preferences of most kids soon turn to boy bands or girl groups, rebellious rock and loud lyrics. I then must have seemed something of a weird kid when the kind of music that soothed this Savage breast through my teen years was generally the light music that was filling most of the airtime on BBC Radio 2 , and still does if only on a Sunday evening when the grey zone takes over with music to soothe the more mature audience over their cocoa and biscuits. Melodies for You, Your Hundred Best Tunes and the seemingly ageless David Jacobs are the kind of programmes I mean. As long as they continue to be there, like a warm bath on the sabbath evening before school the next day, there's hope for civilized life.
Music unites like few other emotionally-led factors can, which is why two centuries after Mozart's birth, his life and his story is still Salzburg's biggest, albeit most expensive, tourist asset. I've never visited Austria, but maybe this might be the year to do it. From Mozart to Von Trapp, the Eastern Kingdom has a musical legacy which will last forever and to share in it is a pleasure open to all through the simple joys of making music together.
But music can also be divisive of course, at least of the generations. Was it fear that my parents might not approve which meant I was 25 before I really got into listening to rock music seriously? Living at home til I was 28 certainly made me more wary of discovering and enjoying my own tastes than I can now, but yesterday I made a point of having a bit of a music fest with my trusty turntable while I was at my flat in Sussex. Of course I'd had plenty of exposure to the more populist stuff through my radio listening hobby, and the assistance of the likes of Mike Read and Steve Wright on the kitchen radio, making my pot-washing labours a little more endurable while I worked in catering for seven years. Boy George I guess is the sound I most remember from that era, and a beautiful but rather dippy girl colleague who was forever singing Karma Chamelon. Now whatever happened to Gary Davies, another star DJ of that era,I wonder?
Interestingly, it was at the same time that I became a Christian I first got into some of the names my contemporaries had been enjoying among their chums for nearly a decade. Slightly ironic, that, but that period of my life, like now, seemed to release in me an ability to be myself and enjoy life to the full too - in music and in companionship. Had I been a more sociable schoolboy, I expect I would have done so much earlier while at school too, though I remember well the oft-repeated sound of Peter Frampton and Genesis on the sixth form record player.
Then, circa 1985, my mate Andrew introduced me to a certain Irish group called U2 and said one reason he liked them were that they were Christians. As he was working in the radio industry at the time, Andrew had a unique opportunity to listen to all the best sounds, as well as some of the worst- the chuck outs from some of that period still populate my record and CD library! But it's funny how these musical memories can stick so much and you get a sudden urge to listen to or sing them again; on Thursday morning, in the shower, another "Forty" came to mind, and I desperately wanted to sing and hear it again! U2's unique treatment of one of the Psalms is brilliant. It kind of sums up in minim, quaver and semi-breve what I was doing while I was only semi-breathing spiritually until a few weeks ago, how I quavered or maybe quivered at who I thought I was and being too minimalist in my understanding of the riches of God's love for me, and for you, too.
I couldn't get my fix of U2 in Middlesex, as most of my record collection is still in my other place, so I was glad yesterday to make a point of listening to it when I was in Sussex. But still no Forty. Where is it- I want it! Never mind, the day was full of musical surprises and delights, as I listened again to the first LP I was ever given, on my sixteenth birthday- more of that light music stuff but especially the original piece with its funky phasing used at closedown and start-up by Radio One- called, you've guessed it, Theme One. Of course, there had to be some Mozart yeterday too, and when I put on a U2 EP of The Unforgettable Fire- betraying its age by the pre-barcode Boots price sticker - I got my first hearing for a while of Bass Trap, a wonderful instrumental by Bono and Co. When it comes to U2 favourites though, can I name one? Difficult. Close contest between New Year's Day, Forty and the one which I think best describes my own experience: I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For.
Some now question the present Christian credentials of U2, especially since Bono became world superstar and joint expressor supreme with Sir Bob Geldof of the plight of the poor of the world. He's been on the campaigning trail again this week, in pursuit of the great and the good at Davos, Switzerland at the World Economic Forum- not so very far from Salzburg, Austria where some rich folk will let go of their Euros for the rest of the year, unheeding of the irony that it takes music to fight poverty, yet this greatest of classical geniuses himself died penniless. Maybe his own requiems can serve as his eulogy,but as long as poverty and human depravity remain, as remembered on Holocaust Memorial Day which also fell on Mozart's birthday, the world will need the solemn sounds of the Hebrew prayer for the
dead too in its songs to counteract the joyful exclamations of Mozart at his most lyrical and his operas at their most comically absurd, like life itself. Until the Lord comes again, we will need to wait patiently for him, when we can sing a new song. He inclines to us, and hears our cries, in music whether of exaltation or mourning. And he sets our feet on a rock every bit as permanent as a Salzburg, a mountain of salt.
.This posting's dedication is for my mate Brian Draper, U2 fan par excellence and regular contributor to their official sites. He's currently doing the Saturday Thought for the Day on Radio 4 -one more to go in the current series- and is imminently approaching his 37th birthday. Ah, I remember that- alright for some for whom forty has yet to come! Brian's new book Searching 4 Faith is a recommended read if you're asking questions about Christianity- but meanwhile, if you want to share any thoughts or indeed have a burning question you want to express, hit that comments button right now!
Sunday, 22 January 2006
You'll never swim alone
It's not exactly the sweet, silver song of a lark that has got me thinking of that most inspiring of tunes from Rogers and Hammerstein's Carousel today. Nor am I chanting from the digital terraces of the antics and indiscretions of England's beleagured football manager, Sven Goran Ericsson, who perhaps wishes right now he'd never stopped selling mobile phones in the family business ( I jest, of course).
Something more profound and primeval brings me to my blog today, as the thoughts and attention of the nation have at least for a few hours been diverted from the life- mocking twaddle that has so dominated the scandal sheets these first few weeks of a new year, to the pitful fate of a juvenile cetacean whose death wails if inaudible to the ears, at least filled the hearts and no doubt emptied the tear ducts of readers and viewers across the world this weekend.
The drama all started around rush hour on Friday morning, when a passenger on board a train on London's Waterloo railway bridge said he thought he was hallucinating but he'd seen a whale in the River Thames below him. Understandable reaction, but not caused by any magic mushrooms on this occasion but a fact. An eighteen-feet long (six metres, for the benefit of those not schooled in imperial measures), Northern Bottle-nosed whale had apparently taken a wrong turn at the Thames estuary at Southend-on-Sea and, instead of following his mother to the cold, deep waters of the Artic, found himself stranded in the shallow tideway of London's river, next to some of the most well-known sites in the world.
The image of this magnificent young beast attempting to stay in the swim to find his way home, is in marked contrast to the Church Times- sorry, I mean News of the World causing another would-be political leader to drown with its scandalous revelations about his private life this morning. Mark Oaten, MP for Winchester, must at least be grateful this Sunday that he has been displaced on most other front pages by an animal whose species frollicked in the world's oceans centuries before man even feigned to beach lives on the questionable altar of 'truthful' journalism.
London's whale's fate could perhaps have been foreseen from the moment he raised his awe-inspiring head above the waters of Old Father Thames. His natural fountain as he spouted salty water skyward, offered a more magnificent sight to watchers on the London Eye observation wheel than anything nearby Trafalgar Square could offer. These giant mammals were created to swim in deep waters, enjoying those dark, vast depths still largely unexplored by us. Though pursued, persecuted and exploited by its only real enemy, Greedy Man, for centuries, at least in these environmentally sensitive times the whale has been given a fighting chance of survival as human beings finally recognise the folly of their careless and senseless exploitation of the natural world.
But river-journeying tourists they are not. The shallows of London's waterway could never support a mammal weighing in excess of seven tons (metric or imperial) for very long. This poor animal never even got given a name, as so often we have a tendency to do, and yet his care and his loss was followed and sadly mourned by the thousands, perhaps even millions, who had followed his attempts to survive even when precedent and circumstance made this seem an unlikely outcome. The noble efforts of divers, vets and mariners to return the baby whale to deeper waters on the back of a barge seemed to have brought out the best in people who so often want to see the worst in others.
What a peculiar, almost obscene, species we can be. Yet what beautiful acts and compassion we are yet capable of. Why this paradox, this constant stasis, in the human condition? A writer I am currently reading, Gerard W Hughes, suggests in his book God in All Things, that it's because of the heats of our desires, or rather the conflicts of them. What St Paul I guess referred to as the conflict between what I "know" I should do, think, feel and what so often I do instead. I should be compassionate, caring, selfless, my mind set on people -even marine mammals- beyond myself. Yet so often, I am reduced to gloating at or criticising the failings of others. Surely such miserable creatures as we are deserve the wrath of God and to meet our ends without pity! Yet thanks to Amazing Grace , as written in the words of one-time slave ship captain John Newton, the sweet sound I hear this afternoon is not of larks, heavenly though their sound may be. It's instead a sweet sound that saves a wretch like me- for I'm no different to any other reader of this blog, I'm a miserable sinner, let's make no whalebones about it!
Maybe the fate of this whale, and our hopes for him, awakened in many the longing for a connection with a long-drowned past, when nature was at one with her maker. Some have likened it to our fascination with dinosaurs, but for me there's an obvious connection with the story of Jonah and the "whale" portrayed in the Bible. Some commentators point out this is a story teaching about obedience, willingness of spirit, gratitude and compassion, together with God's patience and mercy.
Was God merciful to a beast who died at Gravesend, despite the best efforts of bargemen and specialists to save him? Quite plainly, yes. Jesus said (quoted in chapter 10 of Matthew's gospel and also in Luke's account that sparrows -now also rarely seen in London, sadly- were sold for two a penny, making them almost worthless in human terms, yet not one falls to the ground without God's knowledge. So when many worry about life and what the future holds, whether anyone cares any more anyway, maybe a beast of ancient stock should tell us that we are safe and have no cause to worry, whether we flail in the shallows or are overwhelmed by the depth of our troubles. Our father loves and cares for us as he does for the sparrow and the whale, and most certainly the lark, whose heavenly song will be heard again in the summer. These creatures matter to God. But we are far more precious to him than any of them. We need not sink or swim, but fly on eagle's wings into his loving arms. Now that's something worth singing about!
Something more profound and primeval brings me to my blog today, as the thoughts and attention of the nation have at least for a few hours been diverted from the life- mocking twaddle that has so dominated the scandal sheets these first few weeks of a new year, to the pitful fate of a juvenile cetacean whose death wails if inaudible to the ears, at least filled the hearts and no doubt emptied the tear ducts of readers and viewers across the world this weekend.
The drama all started around rush hour on Friday morning, when a passenger on board a train on London's Waterloo railway bridge said he thought he was hallucinating but he'd seen a whale in the River Thames below him. Understandable reaction, but not caused by any magic mushrooms on this occasion but a fact. An eighteen-feet long (six metres, for the benefit of those not schooled in imperial measures), Northern Bottle-nosed whale had apparently taken a wrong turn at the Thames estuary at Southend-on-Sea and, instead of following his mother to the cold, deep waters of the Artic, found himself stranded in the shallow tideway of London's river, next to some of the most well-known sites in the world.
The image of this magnificent young beast attempting to stay in the swim to find his way home, is in marked contrast to the Church Times- sorry, I mean News of the World causing another would-be political leader to drown with its scandalous revelations about his private life this morning. Mark Oaten, MP for Winchester, must at least be grateful this Sunday that he has been displaced on most other front pages by an animal whose species frollicked in the world's oceans centuries before man even feigned to beach lives on the questionable altar of 'truthful' journalism.
London's whale's fate could perhaps have been foreseen from the moment he raised his awe-inspiring head above the waters of Old Father Thames. His natural fountain as he spouted salty water skyward, offered a more magnificent sight to watchers on the London Eye observation wheel than anything nearby Trafalgar Square could offer. These giant mammals were created to swim in deep waters, enjoying those dark, vast depths still largely unexplored by us. Though pursued, persecuted and exploited by its only real enemy, Greedy Man, for centuries, at least in these environmentally sensitive times the whale has been given a fighting chance of survival as human beings finally recognise the folly of their careless and senseless exploitation of the natural world.
But river-journeying tourists they are not. The shallows of London's waterway could never support a mammal weighing in excess of seven tons (metric or imperial) for very long. This poor animal never even got given a name, as so often we have a tendency to do, and yet his care and his loss was followed and sadly mourned by the thousands, perhaps even millions, who had followed his attempts to survive even when precedent and circumstance made this seem an unlikely outcome. The noble efforts of divers, vets and mariners to return the baby whale to deeper waters on the back of a barge seemed to have brought out the best in people who so often want to see the worst in others.
What a peculiar, almost obscene, species we can be. Yet what beautiful acts and compassion we are yet capable of. Why this paradox, this constant stasis, in the human condition? A writer I am currently reading, Gerard W Hughes, suggests in his book God in All Things, that it's because of the heats of our desires, or rather the conflicts of them. What St Paul I guess referred to as the conflict between what I "know" I should do, think, feel and what so often I do instead. I should be compassionate, caring, selfless, my mind set on people -even marine mammals- beyond myself. Yet so often, I am reduced to gloating at or criticising the failings of others. Surely such miserable creatures as we are deserve the wrath of God and to meet our ends without pity! Yet thanks to Amazing Grace , as written in the words of one-time slave ship captain John Newton, the sweet sound I hear this afternoon is not of larks, heavenly though their sound may be. It's instead a sweet sound that saves a wretch like me- for I'm no different to any other reader of this blog, I'm a miserable sinner, let's make no whalebones about it!
Maybe the fate of this whale, and our hopes for him, awakened in many the longing for a connection with a long-drowned past, when nature was at one with her maker. Some have likened it to our fascination with dinosaurs, but for me there's an obvious connection with the story of Jonah and the "whale" portrayed in the Bible. Some commentators point out this is a story teaching about obedience, willingness of spirit, gratitude and compassion, together with God's patience and mercy.
Was God merciful to a beast who died at Gravesend, despite the best efforts of bargemen and specialists to save him? Quite plainly, yes. Jesus said (quoted in chapter 10 of Matthew's gospel and also in Luke's account that sparrows -now also rarely seen in London, sadly- were sold for two a penny, making them almost worthless in human terms, yet not one falls to the ground without God's knowledge. So when many worry about life and what the future holds, whether anyone cares any more anyway, maybe a beast of ancient stock should tell us that we are safe and have no cause to worry, whether we flail in the shallows or are overwhelmed by the depth of our troubles. Our father loves and cares for us as he does for the sparrow and the whale, and most certainly the lark, whose heavenly song will be heard again in the summer. These creatures matter to God. But we are far more precious to him than any of them. We need not sink or swim, but fly on eagle's wings into his loving arms. Now that's something worth singing about!
Thursday, 12 January 2006
A Little Application
Avez vous un cuppa? I'd drink Britain's favourite brew til it was coming out of my nostrils if I could. Whatever the hour of day or night, you can't beat a good hot, strong cup of tea and the nation's most popular brand is Brooke Bond PG Tips, or "the tea you can really taste", the one-time strapline accompanied by images of cheeky chimpanzees up to all sorts of antics. Follow my link (click on the post title) for more info on them and some fascinating facts about the makers and packers of Britain's best beverage. I never knew til tonight, for instance, that PG Tips comes from a place better known for Footie than tea, Trafford in Manchester.
The PG Tips chimps were the longest running advertising campaign on British TV, but sadly somebody in the advertising agency managed to convince Unilever, the parent company of Brooke Bond, they were no longer cool enough to advertise hot tea and they've now been replaced by a peculiar plasticine species known as the T-Birds. But in the wake of Avian flu, now apparently claiming young victims in the ironically-named country of Turkey, could the days of these clawed clay interlopers be numbered already? And could chimpanzees be in the ascendant once again?
You might well think so, judging by the attention paid to this species of ape on prime time BBC ONE television these last few days. It's Chimp Week, and the ever-intrusive lens of the wildlife cameramen has sought to venture further into the daily doings of this fascinating primate than has ever happened previously. However, I've not had much time to watch myself, since I have been either too shattered to stay awake to view after work, or too busy dealing with other practical things. Yet chimps themselves are remarkably intelligent and capable animals, perhaps one of the reasons their commercial cavortings entertained the nation for so long. "Mr Shifter" is surely the best remembered of the many films made over fifty years, and who can forget Michael Robbins' immortal voice-overed line in response to the question "Dad, do you know the piano's on my foot?": "You 'um it son, I'll play it" - and tinkle the old joanna the chimpy thespian did, but not apparently without a little bit of cheating, such as removing the innards of the piano!
Sometimes, achieving the desired result in any endeavour-be it shooting a TV commercial with wild animals or seeking to best sell yourself for a new job, takes a lot of effort. It's something I in particular find very difficult. But there's no gain without pain and often the best results are only achieved through a lot of work-or a little application if you like, to quote one of Mr Shifter's other catchphrases.
Certainly the Christian life's like that: it can be an uphill struggle, like pushing the pedals on a racing bike ("Can you ride tandem"?) with all your might as you press on to claim the winner's yellow jersey. But there's no room to turn a cowardly yellow, nor reason to become sickened and jaundice when things don't happen quite as quick as you hoped. The taste of victory awaits those who press on to the end, pausing as often as necessary along the way to consult the personal trainer par excellence. With God, we're more than just imitative, dumb animals; instead, we're the crowning glory of his creation and there's no apeing that.
The PG Tips chimps were the longest running advertising campaign on British TV, but sadly somebody in the advertising agency managed to convince Unilever, the parent company of Brooke Bond, they were no longer cool enough to advertise hot tea and they've now been replaced by a peculiar plasticine species known as the T-Birds. But in the wake of Avian flu, now apparently claiming young victims in the ironically-named country of Turkey, could the days of these clawed clay interlopers be numbered already? And could chimpanzees be in the ascendant once again?
You might well think so, judging by the attention paid to this species of ape on prime time BBC ONE television these last few days. It's Chimp Week, and the ever-intrusive lens of the wildlife cameramen has sought to venture further into the daily doings of this fascinating primate than has ever happened previously. However, I've not had much time to watch myself, since I have been either too shattered to stay awake to view after work, or too busy dealing with other practical things. Yet chimps themselves are remarkably intelligent and capable animals, perhaps one of the reasons their commercial cavortings entertained the nation for so long. "Mr Shifter" is surely the best remembered of the many films made over fifty years, and who can forget Michael Robbins' immortal voice-overed line in response to the question "Dad, do you know the piano's on my foot?": "You 'um it son, I'll play it" - and tinkle the old joanna the chimpy thespian did, but not apparently without a little bit of cheating, such as removing the innards of the piano!
Sometimes, achieving the desired result in any endeavour-be it shooting a TV commercial with wild animals or seeking to best sell yourself for a new job, takes a lot of effort. It's something I in particular find very difficult. But there's no gain without pain and often the best results are only achieved through a lot of work-or a little application if you like, to quote one of Mr Shifter's other catchphrases.
Certainly the Christian life's like that: it can be an uphill struggle, like pushing the pedals on a racing bike ("Can you ride tandem"?) with all your might as you press on to claim the winner's yellow jersey. But there's no room to turn a cowardly yellow, nor reason to become sickened and jaundice when things don't happen quite as quick as you hoped. The taste of victory awaits those who press on to the end, pausing as often as necessary along the way to consult the personal trainer par excellence. With God, we're more than just imitative, dumb animals; instead, we're the crowning glory of his creation and there's no apeing that.
Sunday, 8 January 2006
Why Can't Life Be More Like The Movies?
It was Shakespeare who said "All the World's a stage, and all the men and women on it merely players". Were he writing today though, he'd probably have to modify his wording a bit :"All the world's a sound stage, and all the men and women in it merely CGI copies".
Well, maybe it's not quite as synthetic a medium as that yet, but it's quite astounding what has been achieved in the world of cinema even in the past ten years, through the development of computer techniques and digital imaging. Nineteenth-Century Fox (Talbot) would be incredulous as to what the mighty megabyte has managed to do to his humble exercises with light. It's truly an industry full of magic thanks to technology, as if it hasn't always been.
It's rare to find a movie these days where the name of George Lucas's benchmark-setting digital effects company hasn't had a hand. The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe is no exception. But can ILM do anything about the awful British climate and the general gloom in early January, once the magic of the Christmas lights has disappeared for another year, apart from the odd tree which some council contractor has forgotten to de-luminate? Probably not, but thank heavens their handiwork, and that of talented directors, can bring a little sparkle into the glumness which afflicts me and many others this time of the year.
After church this Sunday morning, I decided it was high time I went to see this long-awaited epic adaptation of the C S Lewis Classic which fired my imagination and illuminated many a childhood day for me. Dashing down to my local children's library to catch up with the adventures of the Pevensie children was a highlight of that wonderful period of young life when nothing is impossible and the only limits are determined by your mind's horizon. Thirty-seven or so years later though, could the magic and the message be conveyed just as well by the silver screen (or whatever other material they make them from these days)?
I needn't have worried. Although I confess there was the odd moment when I was dozing off - but then that's what I always do on a Sunday afternoon- this was 140 minutes of sheer enchantment and creative genius which C S Lewis would, I'm sure, have been proud to put his name to. The mere fact that his stepson Douglas Gresham is co-producer must say something for the faithfulness of the cinematic adaptation to the spirit of his original.
Quite apart from the digital imagery which created battle scenes claiming to be among the most fantastic ever seen on screen, or animals vivified by the combined power of the animators' art and the voice talents of such luminaries as Dawn French and Ray Winstone, the performances of the juvenile cast were scene-stealing. Georgie Henley, no more than 9 when the film was shot, captivates as little Lucy in a way I've seldom seen a junior achieve and which for me was one of the most memorable performances in a fine film. No less worthy of praise though was the performance of William Moseley as Peter, the eldest of the Pevensey children and a kind of surrogate father to his younger siblings while their father is away fighting in World War II.
But what of the much-mentioned Christian allegorical components of the film, much maligned by humanist critics but equally lauded by many Christian groups? Well, for those looking for them, clearly they were there- though I doubt I would have spotted them as an eight-year old and I suspect few primary schoolers would today either. This is entertainment and fantasy which can be enjoyed as much by believers as by those sad souls who have nothing to believe in their world beyond the existence of the here and now. But young Peter in the story could be as much the life-changed disciple of the Christian accounts as the strong and sensitive hero every child wants to find triumphing in their literature. It doesn't really matter, does it?
Returning to the rain-drenched streets of Feltham after the film was like stepping back through a cupboard door to the dreary reality of everyday life for so many of us. Of having to consider the possibility of new employment, of paying the post-Christmas bills, of finding enough hours in the day to do all those things that need to be done, let alone that which I would most like to do, and particularly to write more. But am I really any different to a million and one other souls around the world every day of their lives who have to face the same issues? Indeed, it can be very easy to overlook the blessings of life in all its fulness, particularly the life redeemed from the nihilist, going nowhere outlook which seems to be the ultimate lot of the non-believer. Eat drink and be merry, for tomorrow we die.
Someday, the feasting has to stop, just as Friday brought the official end of the Christmas season in the Western World with Epiphany. There can be no more Turkish Delight for a while. But that's not to say the rejoicing has to stop. Life is there to be lived in all its fulness, and for Christians it's there to be en-joyed, literally filled with joy. C S Lewis was the proponent of this par excellence, particularly when in a marvellous literal irony, he was surprised by joy- both in emotion and the person of the true love he found in his sixties- there's hope for me yet, then!
For when you do count your blessings, indeed you will be surprised by what the Lord has done. Yesterday was another of those moments for me, when dashing over to my local Saturday branch of Barclays desperate to pay some money in to my current account, I discovered that a certain much-coveted "glittering prize" was on display in the branch, and you could have your picture taken with it for a small donation to the Shooting Star Children's hospice. When I moved on for a pot of tea and a frangipan tart in The Bridge centre within Holy Trinity Church, reading about precious young lives likely to be shortened by the grip of serious illness, outside a busker played Eric Clapton's Tears in Heaven (qv in this blog's archive), I could do nothing but weep, for them and with them, but count my own blessings indeed.
Well, I may never again be within touching distance of the Barclays Premiership Trophy, although maybe there's a delicious irony that in what little knowledge or understanding I had of soccer as an eight-year old - I couldn't play it for Everton toffees, and perhaps my sensitive little mind was always scarred by the handicap this was in your average class of lively boys- Chelsea were my team. The blues of Stamford Bridge now seem invincible under Ronan Abramovich's bottomless wallet, but I guess like all human institutions, they are destined to fall eventually- certainly that would be the hope of reigning European champions Liverpool, who put up a superb performance in a thrilling F A Cup tie against Luton Town yesterday.
But for those who put their hope in the Lord, life doesn't need to be like a movie with a perfect but fabricated happy ending, nor a long hard slog to re-born Wembley stadium for the cup final in May. Every step of the road can be an adventure every bit as exciting as that enjoyed by Peter, Edmund, Susan and Lucy. Sure, there will be heartaches, sorrows and struggles along the way, but always there's the promise. Of a strong lion coming again to save all his people, and holding all the attention of all his "audience" for all time, not just two and a half hours on a soggy Sunday. A better script than this has never been written, and I'd rather be an extra in the live movie house of the Lord than on a directorless stage any day.
Well, maybe it's not quite as synthetic a medium as that yet, but it's quite astounding what has been achieved in the world of cinema even in the past ten years, through the development of computer techniques and digital imaging. Nineteenth-Century Fox (Talbot) would be incredulous as to what the mighty megabyte has managed to do to his humble exercises with light. It's truly an industry full of magic thanks to technology, as if it hasn't always been.
It's rare to find a movie these days where the name of George Lucas's benchmark-setting digital effects company hasn't had a hand. The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe is no exception. But can ILM do anything about the awful British climate and the general gloom in early January, once the magic of the Christmas lights has disappeared for another year, apart from the odd tree which some council contractor has forgotten to de-luminate? Probably not, but thank heavens their handiwork, and that of talented directors, can bring a little sparkle into the glumness which afflicts me and many others this time of the year.
After church this Sunday morning, I decided it was high time I went to see this long-awaited epic adaptation of the C S Lewis Classic which fired my imagination and illuminated many a childhood day for me. Dashing down to my local children's library to catch up with the adventures of the Pevensie children was a highlight of that wonderful period of young life when nothing is impossible and the only limits are determined by your mind's horizon. Thirty-seven or so years later though, could the magic and the message be conveyed just as well by the silver screen (or whatever other material they make them from these days)?
I needn't have worried. Although I confess there was the odd moment when I was dozing off - but then that's what I always do on a Sunday afternoon- this was 140 minutes of sheer enchantment and creative genius which C S Lewis would, I'm sure, have been proud to put his name to. The mere fact that his stepson Douglas Gresham is co-producer must say something for the faithfulness of the cinematic adaptation to the spirit of his original.
Quite apart from the digital imagery which created battle scenes claiming to be among the most fantastic ever seen on screen, or animals vivified by the combined power of the animators' art and the voice talents of such luminaries as Dawn French and Ray Winstone, the performances of the juvenile cast were scene-stealing. Georgie Henley, no more than 9 when the film was shot, captivates as little Lucy in a way I've seldom seen a junior achieve and which for me was one of the most memorable performances in a fine film. No less worthy of praise though was the performance of William Moseley as Peter, the eldest of the Pevensey children and a kind of surrogate father to his younger siblings while their father is away fighting in World War II.
But what of the much-mentioned Christian allegorical components of the film, much maligned by humanist critics but equally lauded by many Christian groups? Well, for those looking for them, clearly they were there- though I doubt I would have spotted them as an eight-year old and I suspect few primary schoolers would today either. This is entertainment and fantasy which can be enjoyed as much by believers as by those sad souls who have nothing to believe in their world beyond the existence of the here and now. But young Peter in the story could be as much the life-changed disciple of the Christian accounts as the strong and sensitive hero every child wants to find triumphing in their literature. It doesn't really matter, does it?
Returning to the rain-drenched streets of Feltham after the film was like stepping back through a cupboard door to the dreary reality of everyday life for so many of us. Of having to consider the possibility of new employment, of paying the post-Christmas bills, of finding enough hours in the day to do all those things that need to be done, let alone that which I would most like to do, and particularly to write more. But am I really any different to a million and one other souls around the world every day of their lives who have to face the same issues? Indeed, it can be very easy to overlook the blessings of life in all its fulness, particularly the life redeemed from the nihilist, going nowhere outlook which seems to be the ultimate lot of the non-believer. Eat drink and be merry, for tomorrow we die.
Someday, the feasting has to stop, just as Friday brought the official end of the Christmas season in the Western World with Epiphany. There can be no more Turkish Delight for a while. But that's not to say the rejoicing has to stop. Life is there to be lived in all its fulness, and for Christians it's there to be en-joyed, literally filled with joy. C S Lewis was the proponent of this par excellence, particularly when in a marvellous literal irony, he was surprised by joy- both in emotion and the person of the true love he found in his sixties- there's hope for me yet, then!
For when you do count your blessings, indeed you will be surprised by what the Lord has done. Yesterday was another of those moments for me, when dashing over to my local Saturday branch of Barclays desperate to pay some money in to my current account, I discovered that a certain much-coveted "glittering prize" was on display in the branch, and you could have your picture taken with it for a small donation to the Shooting Star Children's hospice. When I moved on for a pot of tea and a frangipan tart in The Bridge centre within Holy Trinity Church, reading about precious young lives likely to be shortened by the grip of serious illness, outside a busker played Eric Clapton's Tears in Heaven (qv in this blog's archive), I could do nothing but weep, for them and with them, but count my own blessings indeed.
Well, I may never again be within touching distance of the Barclays Premiership Trophy, although maybe there's a delicious irony that in what little knowledge or understanding I had of soccer as an eight-year old - I couldn't play it for Everton toffees, and perhaps my sensitive little mind was always scarred by the handicap this was in your average class of lively boys- Chelsea were my team. The blues of Stamford Bridge now seem invincible under Ronan Abramovich's bottomless wallet, but I guess like all human institutions, they are destined to fall eventually- certainly that would be the hope of reigning European champions Liverpool, who put up a superb performance in a thrilling F A Cup tie against Luton Town yesterday.
But for those who put their hope in the Lord, life doesn't need to be like a movie with a perfect but fabricated happy ending, nor a long hard slog to re-born Wembley stadium for the cup final in May. Every step of the road can be an adventure every bit as exciting as that enjoyed by Peter, Edmund, Susan and Lucy. Sure, there will be heartaches, sorrows and struggles along the way, but always there's the promise. Of a strong lion coming again to save all his people, and holding all the attention of all his "audience" for all time, not just two and a half hours on a soggy Sunday. A better script than this has never been written, and I'd rather be an extra in the live movie house of the Lord than on a directorless stage any day.
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