End of a (shortish) era….

 

I am not sure what period of time an “era” is supposed to cover. One dictionary defines and era as “a long and distinct period of history”. But words like “long” and “distinct” are themselves a matter of interpretation. And history implies nothing more than a period that has passed. However, as far as my personal history is concerned, an era that began back in the pandemic has now come to an “official” end. You’ll have to judge for yourself whether it was either long or distinct.

Back in August 2021, in my “Life in the pandemic #31” post, I reflected on reverting to a student existence, swapping my staff card as Reader in Vision Science in the University of Liverpool for a student ID in the Union School of Theology. For anyone particularly interested in differences between the sciences and theology, I discussed a number of relevant issues subsequently (near the beginning of my journey here and here, and also here). How rapidly time moves on. The pandemic, such a significant event for all of us at the time, seems to have faded from the collective memory so quickly. Maybe this is a testimony to the rapid dissipation of the fear and dislocation experienced at the beginning of the crisis by the development and deployment of amazingly effective vaccines in super-quick time (something else that has rapidly faded from the collective memory). Like many others I altered course as we were emerging from the pandemic (although the two were not particularly connected), and embarked on Union’s MTh programme. But then, a few weeks ago, along with fellow students, staff, families and supporters, we assembled in Bridgend for the annual graduation ceremony, marking the official end of my studies. So, before this too fades from the memory, I thought it would be worth reflecting again.

I had anticipated that it would be quite a different experience from the one that I had enjoyed forty years ago as an undergraduate then a PhD student in the University of Glasgow. Apart from anything else I was "all growed up” (at least in theory), and was a proper adult learner. The inevitable angst of my late teens and earlier twenties were long departed. I confess that I had thought that this might mean that this time round learning would be more of a solitary occupation. Although the MTh was composed of a number of modules that required attendance at “intensive weeks” on campus with fellow students, most of the time was actually spent toiling back at my desk in my own study. And yet the best learning is always done in community. So I had the privilege of making new friendships on campus, which once we were away from the campus were sustained by the now-obligatory WhatsApp group. Indeed we had two of these – one official and the other our “100% unofficial” group. While it would be nonsense to pretend this was the same as sitting in a library with a group of like-minded dedicated scholars for months, it turned out to be quite a good way of maintaining the group vibe. Would I have preferred a more complete campus experience? Perhaps. But us adult learners tend to accumulate lots of connections and responsibilities that make upping and relocating to a new place of study basically impossible.

All of us bar one were undertaking our studies part-time, and most of my student colleagues were combining their studies with ministry or other forms of employment. Again, this made the distance option the only viable option. I was in the privileged position of not having to worry about such matters and was glad I didn’t have to divide my time with lots of other things. My observation is that worked fine provided they were able to maintain study time, and that they paced their studies to fit into the time they had available. Where study time was encroached upon, then learning was impacted. What mass education rather obscures is that real learning cannot be rushed, it takes as long as it takes. And because we are all different, we learn in different ways and at different speeds. This has nothing to do with basic intelligence, and a lot to do with interest and discipline. Where all that is desired is a piece of paper, disconnected facts, a vague knowledge of the  propositions of others and the odd incoherent opinion, then study can be squeezed into odd pockets of time. But none of us were interested in this. And it would have ill-served the church at large that many of us had in mind as the eventual main beneficiary of our efforts.

We were, of course, all highly interested in these particular studies (theology isn’t called a vocation for nothing). For all of us, returning to such study was a demanding step, and for some a sacrificial one. We were highly motivated. Many of us had already read and thought quite widely in generally theological ways. And yet I think we all found that wide vistas of new material opened up before us under the guidance of those who taught us at Union. But in our exploration of these new lands (some much less familiar than others) we were able to explore together, indeed in a fellowship. This provided encouragement, comfort and stimulus. Lots more material to blog about in the future.

And a word too about our teachers. Having been one in another life, it would be remiss of me not to mention the high quality of teaching we benefited from. Across a series of taught modules, I had the impression of being taught by people who knew what they were talking about. People who have lived and reflected on the material they were passing on. One can tell. I have no doubt there is some Masters level teaching going on in UK institutions being delivered by put-upon postgraduates who would rather be doing something else. There is certainly room for postgraduates teaching Masters students. The good ones do it well, and we all had to start somewhere; this is no criticism of them as a group. But when it occurs simply because too many students have been recruited to a particular programme (usually for financial reasons), and someone has to teach them something, it is largely a waste of everyone’s time. And when it is really bad it becomes a disincentive to any real learning. We had none of that. We were well served by well-prepared and thoughtful lecturers, who clearly took their task seriously. As a result, the MTh was often what education at its best is – inspiring. And it generated that desire to know more.

There were challenges of course. Some of my colleagues who had been away from academia for a while were rather freaked out by some of the requirements that had to be met. Chief among these were the assignments that were required for assessment. There is no doubt that academic writing is a skill that has to be mastered. Some essentials, such as appropriate referencing, strike normal human beings as overly prescriptive and time consuming to no good end. But there is a good end, primarily the clear citation of sources so that they can be checked and consulted. There is nothing worse that reading a really good argument, in which really interesting material has been analysed or synthesised (or both), and then being completely thwarted in investigating further because the sources haven’t been referenced properly or fully. This simply subverts proper inquiry. And it also  denies those who have preceded us of their proper recognition. While there are good pragmatic reasons for referencing, at root it is a matter of integrity. So while I would not claim that I was exactly happy to have to spend the odd afternoon grappling with the requirements for the citation of sources in the Chicago Manual of Style (17^th Edition!), I recognised its necessity. And I think some of my colleagues came to as well. But this was a minor wrinkle, the memory of which is more than matched by so many more interesting incidents and experiences.

So, farewell Union chums. But rather than the end of an era, it is perhaps more like the inauguration and early stages of a new one. And one that I’m now better equipped for. More theology to come then....

In need of better songs….

We all sing. In terms of musicality some of us sing well, some not so well. But much more important than the tunefulness of the melody is the meaning of what we sing. Admittedly this is apparently contradicted by the lyrics of many of the most popular songs. I am often bemused by the words folk are happy to belt out at the top of their voices, even on those occasions when I actually understand the words that are being used. The aim of song writers often seems to be to provide a diverting overall sound rather than any sense or message. There will be the odd half phrase perhaps hinting at what a song is “about”. On that basis one might be able to classify it as happy or sad, or whether it’s about life or love or loss. But meaning and message are often lost among slush and filler. And some songs seem to be “about” nothing. There are interesting exceptions.

In this city (Liverpool) there is a particular song sung as an anthem that has taken on a particular significance. Collectively we (if I might number myself among the Scousers) have become known for it. “You’ll never walk alone” is a show tune from Rogers and Hammerstein’s “Carousel”. The actual words are, largely, nonsense. If taken as advice on what to do in a given set of circumstances (“When you walk through a storm, hold your head up high”), they would lead to disaster or at the very least stinging eyes and a severe headache from flying debris. And some of them are flat wrong and not true to life (“At the end of the storm, There’s a golden sky, And the sweet silver song of a lark”). At the end of some of life’s storms it often seems that there’s more storm. And usually the larks have more sense than to hang about; rather than singing sweetly they swiftly relocate to sing elsewhere. But we all innately understand metaphor, and where a lyric chimes with our hopes we suspend our disbelief. When sung by thousands of Scousers at Anfield, in the context of remembered disasters like Hillsborough, with their attendant multiple injustices, the song takes wing and does seem to make sense after all. Then the sound of singing fades, and we’re left with what? Well, not a lot. Perhaps a warm fuzzy feeling. But this too doesn’t last. How we need better songs.

Last week, Week 3 of the Keswick Convention, in the morning Bible readings Vaughan Roberts was considering just such songs. They are the collection of 150 songs nestling in the middle of the Old Testament, the Psalms. But no random collection this. Like every other book making up the Bible, these particular songs were not just thrown together. Although they were accumulated over a long period of time, the book of Psalms has a structure and trajectory;  as VR put it “momentum builds up”. So, day by day we traced the pattern that leads from the sweeping introduction of Psalms 1 and 2, through the succeeding books, from struggle and lament, via hope to the praise due to the God of covenant promises, whose individual, global and cosmic purposes will not be thwarted. Here are the better songs we need. Songs worth singing. And VR drew our attention to the effect of singing these songs.

The analogy he used to illustrate his point was the scene in "Casablanca" when Victor (the hero unless you’re a big Bogart fan), outraged by a bunch of Nazi officers singing their Nazi songs, tells the band to strike up the Marseillaise. Up to that point the non-Nazi denizens at Rick’s had looked weak and befuddled, compared to the apparent strength and confidence of their new overlords. But led by Victor the crowd picks up the words of the song of their homeland. Lungs fill, backs straighten and soon tears flow with hope of better days to come.  That is the effect of such songs (partly captured by “You’ll never walk alone” too). But there were no guarantees that this hope would not be crushed.

Not so those songs in the Psalms, even when sung by exiles. For the whole of creation has a goal set for it and Heaven’s King will one day be vindicated. Those who take refuge in Him will be saved and safe. This state of affairs has never appeared believable to fallen humanity, so taken with themselves and singing competing songs. The hope in Psalms appeared even less believable when the long-promised King was executed on a Roman cross. And of course if that was the end of the story, then these songs too would simply be about pious but ultimately frustrated hope, with no real purchase on reality. But it was this King who could not be held by death, and who was raised to demonstrate the inexorable progress of His Kingdom. Even so, at the time it didn’t look much like progress. The ancient world was not impressed. After all, how can a crucified God be any kind of God at all? And yet the Psalm of the sufferer (Ps 22) becomes the Psalm of the Sovereign (Ps 24). And although what is ancient is past (obviously), the good news of Jesus the still-coming king, continues to spread. His songs continue to be sung.

To be reminded of better songs at Keswick was valuable and refreshing (and the singing was good too). The need for others to learn these better songs has been amply demonstrated by the riots that broke out in the UK a week ago and appear to be continuing. The rioters have their songs of course, songs of hostility and hatred. These, it turns out, are also old songs. But they have never achieved anything except to provide an accompaniment to destruction and heartache.

I know which songs I’d rather sing.