Keswick from the inside…

For the last few summers we’ve headed to Keswick in the English lakes for our summer holiday, to of all things, a Christian convention (I’ve written previously about the apparent strangeness of this). The Keswick convention now extends through three weeks of the English summer, and provides Bible teaching, seminars and other things to about 3000-5000 people per week. It is not small, and it is not new; next year will mark its 150^th anniversary. But in previous years we have been here as punters (or customers as someone suggested I should call participants). We have turned up to morning Bible readings (that is just a meeting at the centre of which is effectively a sermon) and evening celebrations (just a meeting with a slightly shorter sermon), and in between we’ve walked and read, eaten ice cream, snoozed, met up with friends and so on. Just a happy and relaxed way to spend a week of summer. But this year is different.

Keswick runs on volunteers as well as being supported by the voluntary giving of those who attend (and probably others). This year I think the estimate was about 700 volunteers over the three weeks. We had obviously heard the of the need for volunteers when we attended in previous years. But this year we took the plunge. So, months ago we filled in the requisite forms and named the appropriate referees. There are various teams that make up the volunteer body (tech team, welcome team, catering etc). Having followed a process of elimination (i.e. what would I not enjoy?) I applied for the BaseCamp team. I should explain that BaseCamp is what the Convention calls an area that houses the café, bookshop and various exhibitors from Christian organisations. It also provides an overflow for the main tent where meetings take place, providing live streaming of the as well as a slightly less formal vibe. I had a rough idea of what BaseCamp was like having frequented it in the past. But I didn’t really have much idea of what volunteering to serve in it for a week would be like.

This is not to say I was unprepared. Before pitching up in Keswick there was training to do. This was delivered online in the form of videos which covered everything from standards and ethos to safeguarding, as well as more technical stuff like risk awareness training and “radio protocols” (over!). There was a team meeting on zoom before the Convention and a run of emails. So I certainly felt like I was preparing. All of this was completed on the first day we turned up (last Saturday) when we had a briefing in our base for the week, met the team, had a specific security briefing (a sign of the times) and a walk round the venue. I was genuinely impressed at the effort to prepare and support us, an effort that I’m assuming is made with the other teams. Some members of the team were old hands, and some of us newbies, but from the start we were all possessed of a good spirit of getting stuck in. And just as well. Because having had a couple of hours of briefings, followed by a couple of hours of finding our accommodation (which the Convention provides for volunteers) the first evening was upon us and the site was opened to its Week 2 denizens.

And so here we are now in the middle of the week. My feet and back are bit sore it is true; the hours have been quite long, and a good part if it is spent standing up. But my enthusiasm is undimmed. Our role has been slightly odd in that while we are certainly interested in the Conventioneers we also have a bunch of exhibitors to engage with. We have a basic responsibility for everyone’s safety and security (which today meant getting security to remove an unattended bag), and a sort of pastoral interest in all those who come through our doors. This is particularly the case for those who might be here on their own and appreciate a chat. But there are also  questions to be answered and directions to be given. Keswick attracts wide spectrum of ages and theological outlooks if obviously  concentrated on that part of the spectrum that might still be labelled evangelical. Some come as part of a group, others knowing that they’ll be meeting old friends. Some come alone but know they’ll be welcomed and supported. Some are perhaps lonely. But in Basecamp there’s been time and space for some of our team to sit and chat at our tables with care and sensitivity. Hopefully all those who arrive alone don’t feel alone for too long.

But we also have about 30 exhibitors to look after. Because this was Week 2, their stands were already set up, even if there was a change in personnel. We had the happy task of talking to them and making sure they had what they needed. But this was no chore. They are a very interesting bunch of people, with a passion for the tasks that their organisations undertake. So talking to them isn’t a problem. And many of them have really interesting back stories and experiences as individuals that make for interesting listening. There’s also a real variety of organisations represented, from straightforward missions (if there is ever such a thing) to specific areas and groups, via support agencies of various kinds to theological educators and trainers.

So this has turned out to be a very people focused week. Many interactions may be trivial, but many are not. And there is the possibility that some will be truly significant. Maybe we will facilitate the call of someone to the mission field. That’s not just about classic missionary service overseas (still vital) but also about opportunities on our doorstep. Maybe we will have the privilege of providing encouragement to someone who turned up feeling downtrodden and depressed. Maybe helped by a conversation in BaseCamp, they’ll be enabled to return home with renewed vigour. I was impressed with the level of preparation and it’s been a real pleasure serving alongside my teammates. Seeing things from the inside, and doing things on the inside, has been a great experience.

Might even do it again…..  

On ritual, signs and symbols…..

We do ritual so well in this country. Case in point, the state opening of Parliament. More robes than you could shake a stick at. And on the subject of sticks, near the beginning there’s the ritual of Black Rod (or more technically the Lady or Gentleman Usher of the Black Rod, currently Sarah Clarke). Black Rod is sent from the Lord’s to the Commons, only to have the chamber door slammed in her face. She then uses her stick (the eponymous “black rod” of her title) to bang on the door. Once she gains entry she requests the members of the Common to attend the King in the Lord’s chamber. It is, of course, a complete pantomime, while at the same time being symbolic of the struggle of the Commons’ to assert their practical authority over the Crown. While most of this is lost on the modern TV audience, we did once in our history fight a civil war over these issues (and one or two others). So the symbolism is not without significance. If you were starting with a blank sheet of paper and designing the mechanisms of government, no doubt there would be no place for poor old Black Rod (or a Monarch, or the flummery of the state opening of parliament or much else that we have). But of course, our system did not start with a blank sheet, and all this ritual has evolved and continues to evolve (if too slowly for some).

It is also interesting that even if you do start with a blank sheet, you don’t end up with an absence of ritual. It is still present, but is slightly less colourful and steeped (or dipped) in a shallower history. Those two beacons of republicanism, the US and France, are hardly without ritual. Of the two, the US, at least until recently, was the more stable. In a conscious bid to break with monarchical tendencies and principles, their head of state is not addressed as a “majesty” or a “highness”, but simply as “Mr”. And yet is anyone seriously going to claim that there is no ritual surrounding the US Presidency? The myth is that he (and of course so far they all been a he) is simply a common citizen raised up for a time by his fellow citizens, eventually returning to being a common citizen. And yet even if you believe that any of them begin their journey from ordinariness, they certainly don’t return to it. And as President they wield far more executive power than most of our recent monarchs. It even turns out, according to the US Supreme Court, that the republican myth that everyone is equal before the law, is a myth. The office comes with its rituals, and a number of those stick with even an ex-President. It’s not even a particularly good system for selecting the brightest and best for the top executive role in the state, as the current options in the current electoral cycle amply demonstrate. Here in the UK (or at least in England) we have undoubtedly had some dodgy monarchs in our time. But the hereditary principle has served us pretty well as a means of generating heads of state for the last 150 years, and arguably longer. This may well go some to explaining why republicanism continues to fail to gain traction in the UK. Even in Scotland, at the time of the independence referendum back in 2014 (was it really a decade ago?), the SNP were very keen to stress that they expected Scotland to remain a constitutional monarchy under Queen Elisabeth. That love of ritual runs very deep in us.

And of course ritual is present not only at the level of the State. Summer is a time of graduations. We all get dressed up in hoods and gowns, to process in strict order, to receive our degrees and certificates. It is the final validation of our hard work. I graduated for the third time last weekend. Although everyone says it’s a faff and a fuss, most of us must actually enjoy it (otherwise why would it endure?), and the (small) degree of public recognition that goes with it. So from the oldest of ancient educational establishments, to the newest of colleges, there will be a final ritual to be completed. And it is even spreading to our schools, who in the American fashion (as with that other import, the school “prom”) are increasingly organising “graduation” ceremonies for their departing senior pupils. Then there are lots of private and personal rituals. The sportsman who follows the same process and wears the same left sock as he enters the field of play. The academic who before any major international conference presentation goes through the same ritual as they take to the stage. Ritual is something basic to us personally, even if we often don't call it that.

There is something here that provides more evidence that it’s not just the stuff we can see, hear and feel that is important to us. There are other things that matter; there other levels of reality that matter. They come to us in sign and symbol. Some of these point back into history (national and personal). They point us to things that have enduring relevance even if we’re largely oblivious to their significance. That is certainly true of Christian symbols and rituals. What now is most familiar to us in the form of silver jewellery, the crosses worn by many for adornment, was actually a form of political, social and judicial humiliation. The central ritual celebrated by churches worldwide points to that same event, the death of Jesus on a Roman cross. But just as with the state opening of Parliament, much of the significance of the cross is lost on us. We can trace back symbols and signs to the things symbolised and signified. There might be some value to investigating the symbols in use this week in Parliament. There is certainly value in investigating what was going on when Jesus died on a cross.

The problem, indeed the tragedy, is that we often get stuck on the sign. And not understanding what is really going on we eventually come to undervalue them. But important signs, and important rituals, invite us to consider the things signified. Don’t get stuck on the cross as a symbol and miss the underlying reality.

Election reflection….

Democracy is much misunderstood both by its practitioners and critics. It is undermined by its more autocratically inclined opponents, and occasionally by those who should know better (whose narrow interest is that some of us who can vote, don’t vote). It is routinely taken for granted by those of us who have the privilege of participating in it as evidenced by generally relatively low turnouts here in even general elections in the UK and in the US. Democracy is often an aspiration of those who are never asked who should hold power over them, and it is more valued by those who have only recently come to experience it (as evidenced by the long queues in the recent South African election). It is often messy, it necessitates compromises (either within or between groupings and parties), and it is often peppered with hypocrisy and dissembling (and occasionally flat-out lying).

It was Churchill, speaking in 1947 in the Commons in a debate about amending the 1911 Parliament Act, who said: “Many forms of Government have been tried, and will be tried in this world of sin and woe. No one pretends that democracy is perfect or all-wise. Indeed, it has been said that democracy is the worst form of Government except all those other forms that have been tried from time to time…”. This is the bit of the quotation that is familiar. But he continued “..there is the broad feeling in our country that the people should rule, continuously rule, and that public opinion, expressed by all constitutional means, should shape, guide, and control the actions of Ministers who are their servants and not their masters.” That “broad feeling” remains strong more than 75 years later, long after the demise of both Churchill and his original audience. Funnily enough, in the current UK election campaign, it is the leader of the Labour opposition who has seemed more in tune with Churchill on this score than his supposed political heirs and successors, talking about putting public service at the heart of politics. After a long periods in power politicians (on both ends of the political spectrum) seem to forget they are the peoples’ servants. So it is to Sir Keir Starmer’s credit that in the final stages of the election campaign he has put service at the centre of his philosophy for government. Time will tell if he is sincere and strong enough to resist the temptations of political pragmatism and competing agendas. But if it turns out to be just another sound-bite, another ruse to attract votes, he’ll have to face us all again in a few years. That’s the beauty of elections. They provide a reality check, a sort of political gravity. It can be ignored for shortish periods, but eventually it exerts itself usually followed by the thump of former high flyers impacting terra firma.

So we duly wandered round to our polling station this afternoon, to put a simple pencil “x” against a particular name. An election is always a great leveller. MPs and ministers stopped being that when the election was called. The power drained away from them and flowed to us. So they were in effect brought back to our level. The power has lain in our hands over the weeks of the campaign. But elections also remind all of us that we are on the same level too. My vote counts as much as your vote, no more, no less. And our mass participation in the same simple act for us all (with the single exception that we may put our crosses in different boxes), reminds us of the broader community to which we belong and contribute and for which we are jointly responsible. It doesn’t matter our occupation (or whether we have none), our age, social or ethnic background, bank balance, preferred TV channel or style of music. For one day we’re all the same, while also being different and diverse.

There’s one other thing that I’m very grateful for. There are real differences in the offers that the different parties have been making during the campaign. Most of those who align with those different parties do so precisely because there are sincerely held differences of view between them. I admit there will be those who will perhaps have more base motives, using their alignment strategically to advance their own interests. But I think that this remains a minority pursuit. And yet, by and large, the discussion of these real differences has remained within civil and civilised bounds. On the margins there may have been intimidation, and perhaps even threatened or actual violence. But this has been vanishingly rare. We should be grateful. I cast my vote this afternoon calmly and freely.

One other thing I’m fairly certain of: whoever loses this election will not be found protesting in Whitehall or Downing Street tomorrow morning, trying to whip their supporters into a frenzy with incoherent and unsubstantiated accusations of the election being stolen. Power will flow from the people, back to the politicians, probably quite a different group of politicians, relatively smoothly. We used to think that such transitions were just part of the normal democratic process. But of late we’ve learned that it is dangerous to take this for granted too. It turns out that it is more fragile than we thought. And as the change unfolds tonight and into tomorrow (and if the exit poll is to be believed it is a big change), we should breath a sigh of relief and be thankful. Thankful that somehow democracy, for all its faults and messiness, has worked again. Then we can all get back to the business of moaning about how horrible our political system is and arguing about which particular collection of incompetents are messing it up.

At least we will have had the privileged of putting them in the position of messing it up.