Reading for 2025 (no further)

The title of this post is, I admit, a bit cryptic. You’ll have look back at this January post to get it. But having tee’d up my reading for the year, all neatly piled up, I thought it was only fair to say something in retrospect about it. Then next year (i.e. next week) I’ll say something about my plans for 2026. Only one item will appear in both piles and it is foundational metaphorically and physically. My Greek New Testament has been well used (if not the “Intermediate Greek Grammar” that also appeared with it). I’ve carried on trying to read part of my daily Bible reading in Greek (2025 was a New Testament year), before switching to English, as well as with my weekly reading group in which we’ve mostly been reading John’s writings. Again, because it’s the Tyndale reader’s edition, I’ve benefitted from the help given on each page, which saves me reaching too often for my copy of BDAG (if you know, you know), which was a 2025 birthday present. Currently Tyndale House in Cambridge, whose efforts produced this version of the Greek NT, are expanding and upgrading their library facilities. More power to their elbow. They do vital work that is of continuing benefit to the wider church.

My big “theological reading project” for the year was N. T. Wright’s “Christian Origins and the Question of God”. As before, the idea was to read a little bit every day and knock off the whole thing over the year. And very useful it has been too. Even when the material is hard, and the language a bit convoluted, Wright is always an educational, and even occasionally an entertaining, read. The early volumes have been a really helpful in understanding the intellectual background (not to say ferment) of second temple Judaism which is the wider context into which Jesus steps and Paul later appears. The main thrust of much of this is that this is (unsurprisingly) a Jewish context, something that some Christians (or at least some theologians) have at various points attempted to extinguish from the reality that is the history. Right at the centre of it all is the middle volume (“The Resurrection of the Son of God”), which must stand as one of the best explorations of the resurrection ever written (at least in English) and quite a lot else besides. Some of this material even turned out to be relevant to my other big project of the year (of which more below). The final volumes focus on Paul and his theology; although what theology, his or anyone else’s, actually is turns out to be a tricky question). One of the main themes is again that Paul doesn’t suddenly stop being Jewish and then determines to set up some rival “religion” (although what constitutes a religion also turns out to be quite tricky). Rather, he comes to the startling conclusion that Jesus, albeit the crucified Jesus, has been demonstrated to be the promised Messiah (by the resurrection), has fulfilled one set of promises long made to Israel by their covenant making, covenant keeping, creator God, and has inaugurated the fulfilment of anther set. And to stop uppity Gentiles like me becoming too cocky, I should just remember that I’m the odd branch that has been grafted into a Jewish rootstock. Interesting to read against the background of the recent antisemitic atrocities in Manchester and Bondi Beach. Having succeeded in reading through to the end, I’m going to miss my daily dose of N.T.!

I did plan some “lighter” reading in the form of Hillary Mantell’s “Wolf Hall” trilogy. This was inspired by the BBC adaption of course. It turns out to be a sort of mixture of history and theology. Alas, it turned out no to be “light” enough. I did get to the end of the first book in the trilogy but then I gave up. Mantell is of course a Booker Prize winner; that should have warned me. History I like, and theology I’m committed to. Historical theology (which I suppose you could argue is what N.T. was writing and what I enjoyed reading in the form of Calvin’s Institutes last year) I have enjoyed. There is some historical fiction I’ve enjoyed (I learned all about the Napoleonic wars from Denis Wheatly’s “Roger Brook” stories) but not so much this. I might have another go at Cromwell in 2026, but no promises.

At the top of my 2025 pile was some of the reading that was necessary for a paper I was writing on neuroscience (my former interest) and theology. Some of this was to do with basic philosophical problems that arise when we consider what we are as persons (eg are we made of one kind of stuff which is only physical or is it more complicated than that?), and some were taken up with previous theological responses to what assumed to be the inescapable philosophical consequences of the advances in neuroscience over the last fifty years. Some of those responses left a lot to be desired. It still astonishes me that some in theology fell for the line that the only valid questions are scientific questions and therefore only science can give valid answers. This is basically to make an a priori commitment to a particular form of materialism (only physical stuff exists) which makes explaining things like money and football scores inexplicable in any useful way. And of course it rules as invalid the question “does God exist?” assuming you take God to name an entity that is immaterial. You no longer have to prove He doesn’t exist, because you’ve already decided the issue. There are many supporters of such a position. What is interesting is that, however large that number used to be, it is almost certainly declining. This kind of view leaves unexplored lots of things that actually we are all very aware of including God Himself. You can only go on for so long telling people that questions about such things are invalid. Materialism is its various forms is increasingly viewed as being inadequate (see further here).

Having done lots of reading round the topic I wrote my paper and submitted it. One reviewer loved it, one hated it, and the third thought that what I had produced was good as far as it went, but that I had ignored the important topic of “neurotheology”. So, I had to do more reading, and a bit of writing, and submit a revision. Such exercises are always akin to a negotiation. Whether I’ve done enough for the editor remains to be seen.

Perhaps one day what I’ve written will be on someone else’s reading list. More on my 2026 reading pile shortly.

Christmas observation is interpretation

All observation is interpretation; I’m sure someone must have said that before. It has certainly been widely discussed. We never simply “see”. Facts are never delivered to us neatly isolated from everything else and wrapped up in a bow. Or to change the metaphor, there is no truth tree that if shaken drops fully formed, ripened and reliable facts into our laps to be consumed. That’s just not how the universe is. That said, there is stuff to be known, observations to constructed and interpreted. And it is sometimes interesting to note when something that is knowable, is not known by folk you’d think would know better. I was surprised by the surprise of Melvyn Bragg this morning on the R4 “Today” programme (which he was guest editing) when he discovered that the Bible accounts of Jesus birth do not specify three wise men (there are three gifts, but the number of “magi” isn’t given). I would have expected Melvyn to know his Bible better than that. Slightly later on I was also surprised at the surprise of “the undercover economist” Tim Harford (presenter of “More or Less” a programme about numbers), who was confused both about the number of “wise men” and their status. He appeared to think they were kings, again something that isn’t claimed by the Gospel writers. What is actually stated in Matthew and Luke’s birth narratives is basic stuff and eminently knowable (if apparently widely unknown). However, even many of the “facts” about that first “Christmas” even if known could appear somewhat underwhelming (as discussed previously). So both before and after the key event (the actual birth of Jesus) help is provided for us to understand something of the significance of what is going on. To help us interpret what we can observe correctly. You wouldn’t want to get this wrong.

Luke lays out, in great detail and as part of his “orderly account”, many of the preparatory moves. After centuries of what seemed like divine silence (the theme of a previous post), and several degrees of confusion amongst the Jews of the period (was their exile over or not? had their God forgotten about them? why were they still under gentile rule not to say oppression?), things suddenly started to happen almost as though to tee up a coming main event. The story of Zechariah and Elizabeth (the parents of John the Baptist) never really figures in modern nativities, but Luke clearly sees it as highly relevant to the story of both Jesus birth and His later public ministry. But it also acts as a bit of a wake up call. And Mary’s older (and certainly more experienced) cousin Elisabeth provides her with necessary support when bizarre things also happen to her. But even having been alerted that something pretty amazing is going to happen, the significant facts of Jesus actual birth are so intrinsically unbelievable, that many at the time (and certainly since) assume a simple explanation for a) Mary being pregnant and b) Joseph not being the father. After all, the problem was not that Joseph (and everyone else) did not know where babies come from, rather the problem was that he did (hence his initial idea of quietly divorcing his betrothed). And yet, as amazing as Jesus conception and birth are, the climax of the story could simply be perceived to be what looks like a fairly ordinary baby, albeit laid in a feeding trough. To this extent, it is difficult to see what the fuss is about (particularly if we miss some of Gabriel’s hints and how they relate to the angel’s own personal history).

So, because all observation is interpretation, and because interpretation always requires subsidiary facts (or a network of background beliefs and assumptions), we’re given some help. This is aimed at helping us understand not so much the how but the who of Bethlehem. This is where the shepherds and the “magi” come in, and their focus is on who the baby is, not so much how or where the baby was to be found (although neither of these is unimportant). Of the two, the shepherds are perhaps given both the most and the most dramatic help to understand what they will be seeing when they look into that feeding trough. Like Mary they have a scary encounter with an angel (no doubt made scarier still by the “glory of the Lord” which also appeared). Like Mary they are told things that for them (as they would have been for any of us) are scarcely reconcilable. On they one hand they will find themselves looking at the Messiah (Luke uses the Greek equivalent “Christ”) who has indeed come to save or rescue His people (the clue was in His name of course). And there is a heavy hint as to His divinity too; in calling Him “Lord” (κυριος, kyrios) Luke uses the Greek word used for God’s name in the Greek translation of the Old testament). But on the other they’ll be staring at a baby! The magi make their way from the east (we aren’t told from whence or precisely when) guided by a sign in the sky and their own learning. They sought extra help from the very earthly source of King Herod of course. They think they are looking for a king, it is apparently Herod who works out they are looking for the Messiah. What is often missed about these (probably Gentile) men, is that when they see the baby they fall down and worship Him. Clearly they are not merely seeing a baby and being suitably appreciative. Nor is their action merely one of respect. It is one of worship – they too are looking on not just a baby, but a being who is worthy of their worship. But this was revealed, rather than worked out, just as it was for the shepherds.

It would take lots of other people a long time to work out what these two groups were told. Some never got it. Many still don’t. If you just observe a story about a baby (or perhaps several contradictory stories about a baby – something else I heard on the radio this morning) you will be seeing but yet not seeing. That too turned out to be true of lots of people who would see and hear the man the baby grew up to become, and lots of people who hear (or indeed read) about Him today. 

Happy Christmas.

On Christmas plans….

What plans do you have for Christmas? Perhaps you have a particular present in mind for that special one (or have been thus instructed). But you’re leaving the actual purchase to the last minute (Christmas eve would be ideal). Imagine though. You turn up at a suitable retail outlet only to discover that they’ve sold out! You would just have to switch to plan B. Or perhaps you have a Christmas journey planned. The tickets have been bought, the hotel booked. Imagine though. You turn up on time at your favourite local airport to discover all flights have been grounded by a software glitch somewhere in Austria! No doubt about it. Plan B again. Such things don’t happen to us often. But the plans we make often depend on lots of other people and things over which we have absolutely no control. Lots of moving parts that we need to run smoothly. Usually they do, occasionally they don’t. And on those occasions when Plan A doesn’t work out, plan B has to be pressed into service. Some people seem to think about the first Christmas (i.e. the birth of Jesus – although that wasn’t any kind of Christmas) as a sort of divine plan B.

Why might such a thought occur to anyone? Because before any of the “Christmas” events transpired there was a whole series of happenings and history that had unfolded over the preceding centuries. Some of the players in this history thought they had a handle on what was going on, and indeed that they were central to God’s big plan. That a big plan was needed was clear from almost the beginning. Things were just not as they were intended to be, and that applied to people too (you’ll find the reason for this laid out in Genesis chapter 3). With a devastating flood and the destruction of the tower at Babel, things seemed to go from bad to worse to confused. But then, from around Genesis 12 (actually the hints are right there in what appears to be the unmitigated disaster of Genesis 3), a coherent strategy emerges. This involved the God who made everything calling an obscure man named Abram out of idolatry (i.e. the worship of things that are not God) and making extravagant promises about blessing coming to everyone on earth through him and his descendents. Gradually, from that man (eventually renamed Abraham), who took God’s promises seriously and trusted the God who made them, a people emerged and came to prominence. Not that it was all plain sailing. From a human point of view it seemed to take a long time and a circuitous route. And once or twice the whole thing seemed to be on the verge of complete collapse. At the time when Abraham’s descendents were numerically strong enough to be called a nation, they actually had to be rescued from slavery and oppression while residing far from the place they had been promised. Their whole rescue experience, in both symbol and reality, turned on God being faithful to His original promise even in the teeth of their consistent failure to live like Abraham (ie trusting God). But their very failure to be the people they were supposed to be pointed to a basic flaw within them that they shared with rest of humanity (the same flaw that affects all of us today). They were no more or less flawed than anyone else; in this respect they were representative of us all.

Eventually it looked like God had given up on them. Although they owed Him everything, they kept playing fast and loose with His, although He was constantly proving Himself true to that original promise. They even returned to the sort of idolatry that their ancestor had been rescued from. Eventually everything appeared to fall apart. It looked as though, like so many other ancient cultures, they were to be washed away by successive waves of history. So if ancient Israel, for that’s who we’re thinking about, was plan A, and it was through Israel the rest of us were to be blessed, the plan appeared to be in big trouble. The whole of the Old Testament of the Bible is their story. It is a story of repeating patterns, and of a promise which, while often forgotten, was never quite erased.

Out of the ruins something (someone!) long promised eventually arrived. His coming wasn’t new in the sense of something different (i.e. plan B because plan A hadn’t worked) because it fell precisely into those patterns and expectations set up by the whole of the Old Testament, something many of the writers of the New Testament go out of their way to demonstrate from Mark to Revelation. But it was new in the sense that when it happened it was simply not what was being looked for, to the extent that many, both at the time of the promised One’s arrival and since, completely miss what’s going on. All that had happened in Israel’s history, what appeared to be wasted time and effort, turned out to precisely illustrate what was about to happen and more besides. It all turned out to be part of one big plan (A).

Israel’s experience, real and excruciating as it was, actually served to reveal the magnitude of the problem. That was necessary because human beings don’t generally understand just how awful their natural predicament is and therefore the magnitude of the solution that is required. It turns out that promises, encouragements, rules, religious systems, all of which work from the outside of a person, can’t ultimately fix the problem, which for all of us, for all of time, has been on the inside (the unfixed flaw mentioned above). But it’s almost as though part of plan A was to illustrate that problem in detail, and how not to sort it, before the actual solution was presented.

Here’s the big difference between God’s plans and ours. We often need plan B because we don’t have the power to deliver plan A. There are always things outwith our control that can (and sometimes do) interfere. But the thing about God is there is nothing outwith His control or beyond His power. So there was never going to be anything to interfere with, or thwart, plan A even if looked to human eyes as though there was. Something amazing is happening when Jesus is born in Bethlehem. His birth isn’t a sign of the failure of plan A and the need for something new (plan B). It’s actually the next part of the unfolding plan, brining us closer to the crux of plan A.

I hope you Christmas plans work out. God's plan certainly is.

“Who does He think He is”?

This is a question that occurs to most of us at some point. It is usually unspoken, occasionally spluttered in indignation. It is most often prompted by the sayings or doings of someone else. Sometimes these sayings and doing only concern themselves. Occasionally they directly relate to us. Usually this question is rhetorical, prompting no great in-depth analysis. But I can think of one prime example of where this question has and is often asked, where analysis is possible and may even be a necessity for each and every one of us.

It is worth noting that the question asked above is first-cousin to another question: who is He? These are not identical. But in the case of the example I have in mind there is an important interplay between the two. The “He” is question is of course Jesus. Jesus, who although an historical figure, is being remembered today (“good” Friday) as having some continuing relevance to at least the billions of His (at least) nominal followers. That in itself is remarkable. Precisely because He is an historical figure, He can be investigated and has been. Indeed there have been concerted scholarly efforts to do so, often subsumed until the title “the quest for the historical Jesus”. Talk of “the” quest is, however, misleading. There’s an old quest that some argue was instigated by Reimarus in the eighteenth century. However, this produced a Jesus who sounded suspiciously exactly as you would expect him to depending on the philosophical convictions of whichever author you happened to be reading. The end result was a rather anaemic and a-historical Jesus. This quest was finally put out of its misery by Schweitzer in 1906 with the publication of his “The Quest of the Historical Jesus”. But while the “old” quest came to an end, the questing continued, suggesting that there was something important about these questions.

Just how one might parse the new questing that continued in the twentieth century, as a renewed quest, second quest, quest 1a, 1, etc is a matter of debate. But the continual interest in the question of who Jesus is, is remarkable given the view in some circles that we could know nothing directly of Him at all. In this popular mid-twentieth century view, what Jesus actually did and said had been lost entirely. The gospels were all slanted and mythological accounts that had little to do with history. They might tells us about the early church and the issues that were then current, but they could tell us little or nothing about Jesus Himself. Non-canonical writing about Jesus (ie writing outside the books of the New Testament) tended to be fragmentary or even less historically reliable, and much of this writing dated from well after the time of Jesus’ death. However, this turned out to be unsustainable because it simply ran counter to so much of the evidence. And there were two really big elephants in the room. The world was turned upside down by the events of around 30AD when Jesus died (so something remarkable was going on), and their was the multiply attested fact that Jesus continued to have real impacts on people’s lives right up to today.

Many will again have have found themselves contemplating Jesus’ death at the start of this Easter weekend. But many a great teacher has died a noble death (and arguably Jesus’ death was far from that). The classic example in the ancient world was Socrates, who accepted his death sentence, drank hemlock and died rather than live inconsistently with what he had taught. It is true that he has had a profound influence on Western thought (albeit mediated by Plato and others). Yet mention Socrates today, and many a mind will tend to remember a Brazilian footballer instead (“widely regarded as one of the greatest midfielders of all time”). In contrast, Jesus’ death was particularly cruel and appalling, and yet has been invested with such significance that many of us will have its instrument as an item of jewellery secreted about our person. And he steps right out of history in the story of contemporary men and women who claim not merely to know about Him, but to know Him. There is something in this that is more relevant to us than mere fascinating history.

And that’s where we come to the question that we actually started with. Given that there was an historical Jesus, is it possible to know who He thought He was? Well, it turns it out that what N.T. Wright calls “an impressive catalogue” of sayings are attributed to Jesus in the Gospels. Many of these are only explicable if they were actually originally said by Jesus. And it’s not just what He says, it’s what He does. The Gospel writers (and others such as Paul) are clear that they are communicating what was said and what was done. Do they do it as a twenty-first century journalist or historian would? Of course not (that would be a sure sign of something dodgy going on). They are clear and up front (in a way their critics are often not) that they are selecting from a much wider range of material that was available to them. They are organising their material to best effect. While all that academic questing was (or was not) going on, people continued to engage with their material, and found themselves engaging with Jesus Himself. And it turns out He was clear and consistent about who He thought He was. And so were the Gospel writers.

As an aside, I am not claiming that reading the Bible in general, or the Gospels in particular, can be done in some value free way such that some transparent meaning of the words on the page immediately moves into the mind of the reader. Reading doesn’t work like that. Text always has to be interpreted. And indeed, if the New Testament is being read in English, then the actual documents have already been interpreted once (by the translators). But by being aware of a few simple rules of thumb, many of which are known to us implicitly already, the question asked at the outset becomes clearly answerable from the Gospel accounts.

So who did Jesus think He was? In a very knowing way He speaks about His relationship with God the Father (whose name His original Jewish audience knew well), and does the sorts of things that they all knew only God could do. While distinct from God the Father, He also claims identity with Him. This so outrages His original audience, that they get ready to stone Him for blasphemy there and then (in part this is also the charge on which they eventually do get Him). He eventually heads to what looks like a very deliberate confrontation with both religious and political authority, knowing full well what this will entail for Him. But He apparently also believes that this is inevitable and necessary, and that His death will be the means by which life is secured for those who will align with Him, and only with Him. All because of who He is. If this is in any way near the historical reality, then only two response are left to us. One is the incredulous version of the question we started with, because He is clearly a crackpot or worse. He thinks He is someone He cannot possibly be. It doesn’t matter if He’s well-meaning if it turns out He’s just flat wrong about His own identity. But the second response is to take the question seriously, and look at the evidence in the round. But here it gets really interesting; that evidence does not end in His death.

If He only died, then He is simply another version of Socrates (or the Buddha, or Mohammed). All great and influential men in their way. But their most fervent admirers and supporters would all agree that they are dead. They didn’t make exactly the claims that Jesus made, and they didn’t die the death that Jesus died, but so far, so same. But that’s what makes Easter special. On Friday all is confusion. But Sunday’s coming, and with it clarity.

It’s still bright at 5pm…

One way or another I spend quite a lot of time looking out of my study window. While it does not afford a view of rolling hills, and I can only see one rather bare tree (at least for the time being), it is just after 5pm and I can see outside and don’t have to put my desk lamp on to read. All this is good news. Granted that there will be cloudy days to come when it will be duller at 5pm. But the days are now lengthening, another winter is almost behind us and that tree will not be bare for much longer. The mind turns to warmer as well as longer days and spring and summer plans; the whole mood lifts. My inner Calvinist whispers about the shorter, colder days that will follow, and a return to early darkening afternoons. But, for the moment I can enjoy the extra minutes of daylight and their promise while ignoring these darker promptings.

It is all a reminder that time is moving along. And the longer days are not the only such reminder. Just recently I’ve been at a number of funerals and thanksgiving services. One was that of a friend and exact contemporary; we had been undergraduates and PhD students in the University of Glasgow (he was much cleverer than me - his PhD was in nuclear physics). After working for a while as an engineer in the aerospace industry, he studied theology and was eventually called to be the minister of a Presbyterian church near Birmingham. Last summer we bumped into each other at the Catalyst conference in London, and although we hadn’t actually seen each other face to face for about thirty years, you would hardly have known it. Hearing about his death was a surprise on two levels. Firstly, it was unexpected. We all secretly think that only other people die even although this is patently absurd. But I no more anticipated his death than I anticipate my own (ie generally not at all). Secondly and additionally, because he was a close contemporary, the news inevitably evoked those feelings of personal mortality that lurk in the farthest reaches of the background to one’s thinking. It turns out that along with you and everyone else, as each day passes it passes for me; I am a little bit older. A further reminder of the passing of time.

Another occasion that sticks in the mind was the thanksgiving service of one of our friends in Liverpool, who had originally come to the city to study Physical Education. But during her studies she was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. This meant a necessary change of direction, but did not mean despair. She went on to a successful career in business, although she had to retire on medical grounds relatively early in life. Without a word of complaint she continued to play an active role in family and church life, pouring herself into the lives of many others, including ours being an active part of one of the Church small groups we led for a while. At the service there was genuine thankfulness for a life well lived in the face of what was eventually severe disability. A life that had been of tremendous benefit to many of us and therefore a life of significance. But (and this was true of the other service too), in addition to looking back, we were collectively able to look forward. These occasions were far from solely concerned with the past.

Both of these individuals were Christians, with a firm hope that because they had placed their trust in a Saviour who had died but then been raised, they and those of their friends and family who shared their hope, could face death and know that it was not an end. In life they had known the same uncertainty of us all; we do not know the timing or manner of our death in any detail. In one case it came relatively swiftly, in the other after a protracted physical decline. But they had a security, indeed a certainty, in the midst of the uncertainty. Even death could not break the hold that their Saviour had upon them. So, facing both those known and unknown difficulties that lay ahead of them in life, they could do so with confidence. And we could meet after their deaths, with the implicit reminder of our mortal demise with a similar confidence. I don’t mean by this the sort of cocky bravado that insists on the paying of Sinatra’s “My Way” or the reciting of Henley’s “Invictus”. Both of them had sought to follow Jesus’ way because their souls had definitely been conquered by Him. And it was not with any naive and false bonhomie we sought the comfort of families who were truly grieving loss or sought it for ourselves. In the midst of the grief you would expect, there was that certain shared hope that this loss was not permanent. In time it will be trumped by a life together that is eternal. And time is passing.

In fact these occasions did more that note the passing of lives, and implicitly the passing of time. They did more than point forward to a future that was hypothetical. They evidenced that future and served as a deposit of it. Time is passing. But the future that was in view on these occasions is not merely waiting passively for us to arrive at it, it is making its way towards us. And that leads to both anticipation and a degree of restlessness. One of Rutherford’s hymns captures this. It no doubt will strike some as odd, depressing even and it can be parodied (and probably has been). It’s on my list for my funeral (which I’ll obviously be depending on others to organise) and begins with the following: 

“The sands of time are sinking;
the dawn of heaven breaks;
the summer morn I've sighed for,
the fair sweet morn awakes;
dark, dark has been the midnight,
but dayspring is at hand,
and glory, glory dwelleth
in Emmanuel's land.”

It’s well worth looking it up and reading the other verses. Being able to see out of my study window, it turns out, is just one more pointer to lighter and better days ahead.

Reading for 2025 (so far...)

 

How long does it take for a tradition to become a tradition? I have no idea. But I think I'll stick with one that began only twelve months ago, and commence the blogging year by mentioning some of the books that it is my intention to read in 2025. Some are part of ongoing projects and there are two complete series in view. And no doubt that there will be other "one-offs" that I’ve yet to encounter.

At the bottom of the pile (and still foundational in more than the obvious sense) is my Tyndale House Greek New Testament. The acutely observant with longish memories will remember that this was also at the bottom of last year's pile, but it was there perhaps more in hope than expectation. I had embarked on learning NT Greek with the help of resources from Union. At the time I thought I might eventually embark on further, formal language study. But alas my progress was rather slower than I had hoped (and slower than was necessary to undertake the courses I had in mind). However, by last September I had made sufficient progress to join a local group that met online once a week to read and translate the NT. So, for an hour each Wednesday morning that’s what we’ve been doing. Reading our way through John’s Gospel, there have already been some lightbulb moments. I confess that some are a bit nerdy; a verb in a tense freighted with meaning that is missed in the English. Others have come as a result of feeling the full force of the language John reports Jesus as using (albeit in his translation from Aramaic to Greek). The clarity with which Jesus claims not merely to be a prophet but God Himself was not lost on His original hearers who, in John 8:59, are literally ready to stone Him to death (ie they’ve got to the stone picking-up stage). But while this is clear in English translation, Jesus constantly taking up the language of Exodus 3:14 (I am) comes through loud and clear in the Greek. In the same section at least one other person uses the same words (once), but the context and repetition on Jesus’ part emphasise His claim.

My strategy for our sessions is to try to do several verses of translation each day over the preceding week, allowing me to spot difficult vocabulary or grammar (of which there’s still a lot) ahead of time. I am still very much in the foothills, but the Tyndale “Reader’s Addition” helpfully lists less familiar words in footnotes at the bottom of each page, meaning that one doesn’t constantly have to refer to a separate lexicon or the interweb, thus saving lots of time. This year I’ve also been trying to read a couple of verses in Greek from my daily Bible reading schedule. And to keep moving forward I thought I’d better try and advance my understanding of the grammar beyond the basics covered last year. To some extent this develops from the reading, for it quickly becomes clear that basic rules are, well, basic. As with any language (and English must be a nightmare in this respect) such rules are often more broken than kept. So on my pile is Mathewson and Emig’s “Intermediate Greek Grammar”. While admittedly not what you would call “ a right riveting read” this is none-the-less useful for understanding some of the rule bending and breaking that actually occurs with the language “in the wild”. 

What I did have last year (although I didn’t discus it in the relevant post) was some serious theological reading - Calvin’s Institutes (edited by McNeill, expertly and entertainingly translated by Ford Lewis Battles). The “Institutes” represented some of the first “proper” theology I read when I began the MTh at Union. I had of course heard of the man before, and had enough reformed friends to have heard of the Institutes. But I had never actually read Calvin (and now I wonder if my friends ever had either). I initially approached the two substantial volumes of the McNeill edition with some trepidation. After all the Institutes were originally written in the 16^th century, within a particular context and with some fairly specific polemical targets. I had already been exposed to some of Barth’s “Church Dogmatics” which was not an entirely happy experience. I needn’t have worried. The combination of Calvin’s clarity of organisation and thought (and his wit) on the one hand, and Battle’s skill as a translator on the other, made it an intellectual and spiritual treat. Even for those not of a reformed disposition, there is much to learn and admire in Calvin’s efforts. But that was last year. I wanted to continue reading theology, but what next? Providentially I picked N.T. Wright’s five volume “Christian Origins and the Question of God”. I say providentially because, a bit like Calvin (or was it Battles?) Wright has a way with words. I managed to get started on Vol 1 early, and finished it last week. It is written with verve and wit, but without sacrificing depth and thoroughness (and providing plenty of footnotes and an extensive bibliography). There are those occasions when one encounters writing dealing with difficult or potentially dense issues, but the author does so in way that provides assurance that they “know their onions”. Having learned lots about the Judaism that provided a key element of the context for Jesus’ arrival, life, death and resurrection, I’m now enjoying the second volume which concentrates on Jesus Himself. The plan is to complete all five volumes this year. So far, I have no reason to believe this will be a chore.

To digress from the theology for a moment (but not as far as you might think), I also plan to read Hillary Mantell’s “Wolf Hall” trilogy. Now it is true that she won the 2009 Booker Prize for the fist book in the trilogy, and this would normally scare me off. The books that critics deem worthy of awards and the books that I enjoy reading usually fall into two distinct and mutually exclusive categories. Prize-winning prose is usually not my thing. But I was was impressed with the BBC’s adaptation of the books, and enjoyed Mark Rylance’s portrayal of the central character, Thomas Cromwell. So I took the plunge and made the trilogy one of my 2024 Christmas asks. Some kind relative duly obliged and this has been my bedtime reading throughout January. Bedtime it may be, but “light” it is not. I’ll spare you the review, but I will be persevering. And the story of Cromwell (if not the man himself) is growing on me. I have two and a bit books to make up my mind.

Towards the top of the pile is reading for another “project”. I completed my PhD at the end of the 1980’s, and spent a good part of the 90’s in the Centre for Neuroscience at the University of Edinburgh. These were heady days in what we’ll call the “neurosciences” (really a collection of fields and techniques all aimed at understanding the operations of the brain and nervous system). As a subject it was reaching maturity and new tools, particularly those for imaging the brain in awake human subjects (ie while they were doing things like thinking), were becoming routinely available. The new techniques and results had not gone unnoticed by philosophers, who were beginning to think that there might be light at the end of the very long, very dark mind/brain tunnel. It was around this time that “eliminative materialism” came into its own with loud and confident statements made, asserting that things like beliefs were the product of a soon-to-be-refuted and redundant “folk psychology”. Soon we would all get used to the (correct) idea that beliefs were the phlogiston of the neurosciences and they would be properly replaced by talk about brain states. “I” am merely my brain and have no more basis in reality than the immaterial God who has already been routed and driven from polite public discourse. What I didn’t know at the time was that this was (of course) only a very partial view of the state of the philosophical (never mind the theological) world.

So my aim is to now read some of the rejoinders I should have read then. To be fair I was doing other things at the time like making my own modest contribution to trying to understand vision and eye movement. This time round I’m also specifically interested in the serious theology as well as the philosophy involved, because it turns out there is quite a lot of it. Including (as can bee seen in my pile) Barth. Actually Cortez's "Embodied Souls, Ensouled Bodies" has been very helpful on that front. Suffice to say that already I’m discovering that time has not been kind to the eliminativists, and that’s even before one begins to take on board what Divine revelation has to say about the constitution of human beings, mental and otherwise.

It turns out God has much to say about us as well as Himself.

“Was Jesus a Jew?” (and other matters)….

I would like to stress that the above question is not mine, but one that was put to me this week. It was not asked by someone trying to be smart or make a point or start a debate. They simply did not know the answer and were curious. Being unclear about Jesus origins is perhaps forgivable given centuries of (mainly) European “Christian” art that has tended to portray Him as relatively light skinned, with shiny hair and a very well trimmed beard. Centuries of creating Him in our own image, in the same way that fallen humanity always does with God. The question cropped up in the context of a conversation about Christmas as we shared our mutual dislike of many of its contemporary features. Although this was, and for some of us still is, an opportunity to celebrate the incarnation of the second person of the Trinity (the Word being made flesh as John puts it), Christmas has all but completely morphed into a secular celebration of general niceness, bonhomie and wistfulness. And in this form it is built around various myths.

I am fairly sure that my friend is sure that these myths are myths. Small children, should any be in the vicinity, should perhaps be ushered out of the room at this point – you have been warned. But we all realise that the idea that the presents that appear on the morning of 25^th December, often laid under a fir or pine tree (whether real or synthetic) are not placed there by a stranger in a red suit and white beard on the basis of merit accumulated in the previous twelve months. He who shall remain nameless (but about whom many a parent lies to their offspring) is made up, as is the historical hinterland often attributed to him. Other inventions that appear at this time of year include three wise men and inns with sympathetic inn-keepers but no room. Given the accretion of this mythology, and the widespread Biblical illiteracy that is a feature of the culture, it is not really a surprise to find doubts arising about that other central figure of Christmas, and still the star of many a school nativity, Jesus.

Of course one can investigate who Jesus is, and I would argue that any educated person should. A sensible place to start would be the Biblical accounts of His birth. But here we find something that seems rather strange (as well as lots of things that are contested). Only two of four Gospel writers (Matthew and Luke) include birth narratives in their accounts at all. Mark (who was probably first to produce a Gospel) and John (who probably wrote after the others) both begin their accounts with Jesus’ baptism, when he was aged approximately 30. The most detailed birth narrative occurs in Luke, but he provides almost as much detail about the birth of Jesus' relative John the Baptist (whose birth we never celebrate). And yet for two or three months of every year, thanks to the relentless focus of advertisers and media, you might think that Jesus’ birth is a key event we should focus on. Apparently this was neither the view of 50% of the Gospel writers or, for that matter, the early Church.

For the first two or three centuries of the Church’s existence, more prominence was given to Jesus' baptism (celebrated in the Feast of the Epiphany in January) and His death and resurrection (celebrated at Easter – in spring, and for a while a literally moveable feast). In part this was because birthdays in general were yet to take on their modern significance. So it took a while for consensus to emerge as to when Jesus was born. And at the time there were much more important issues that had to be settled. Besides, precise dates were not much of a thing in the ancient world. So initially, estimates of His month of birth ranged from November to March. Only gradually was December 25^th adopted (at least for liturgical purposes) in part so that a celebration of Jesus birth might displace more dubious pagan celebrations.

Perhaps this Biblical and early Church disinterest in focussing on Jesus birth was also because while it was obviously necessary for what came next, and while it was surrounded by a number of heavy hints as to His significance, it was in some ways profoundly ordinary. And concentration on it, to the exclusion of the rest of what we’re told about Him, runs the risk of “perpetual baby syndrome”. In our minds He forever remains a cute and suspiciously quiet (according to “Away in a manger”) infant. Yet beyond his birth we need to understand the life He led, what He said and did, and not miss the significance of the death He died. However you view these things, cute would hardly be an adequate description. What He did outraged and astonished in equal measure. What He claimed, explicitly as well as implicitly, needs to be carefully weighed. For these are not mere matters of the historical record. The critical call that Jesus made (and makes) is not so much that we must reckon with His birth, but that His life and death having continuing personal as well as cosmic significance. And of this is validated by His resurrection perhaps the most significant event in history, at least so far.

Questions like the one my friend was asking can be answered. We can certainly establish where Jesus was born, and the circumstances surrounding His birth. We can be sure of His ethnicity (He was a Jew), and His heritage (with regard to His human descent He was from the tribe of Judah, though the kingly line of David), and see how his coming fulfilled ancient promises and patterns. I contend that none of this is myth, nor is it merely history, and all of it is significant. By all means enjoy contemplating His birth, but don’t get stuck.

Personally, I comfort myself with the thought that although it’s almost Christmas, Easter is just around the corner.

The fall and rise (ups and downs) and rise…….

While it is not inevitable, life can be a bit of a downer. And no matter how far we rise, what is inevitable for each and every one of us is our eventual mortal demise. It doesn’t bear thinking about. Which is why, by and large, we don’t. In this culture we usually neither think nor talk about death. And when it arrives, increasingly ways are found to avoid, or at least distract us, from “it”. More than a few daytime TV ads offer alternatives to “trad” funerals. Funded (probably) by your over-50’s life insurance policy (so you needn’t worry about being a “burden”), one can now opt for a “direct cremation”, and your loved ones can remember you howsoever they wish (or not), without any “fuss”, and certainly without reminding themselves of their (or your) mortality.

But on my morning walk this morning (nothing excessive, just to the paper shop), I happened to get thinking about a number of folk that are no longer with us. Some were people that I didn’t know personally. This was prompted in part because I watched the “Concert for George” recently. Organised by friends and colleagues of George Harrison, former Beatle and devotee of eastern mysticism, Harrison grew up about a mile from where I’m typing. Despite prodigious talent, worldwide fame, a considerable fortune (his estate was worth about £100M when he died), and the love and affection of his family and many friends, it’s not clear he was a man who really found what he was looking for. He died in 2001, in a house belonging to someone else, albeit surrounded by his family and Hare Krishna chants. After his death his family released his final “message to the world”: “Everything else can wait, but the search for God cannot wait, and love one another”. It was to George’s credit that at least he had been looking.

Another recent reminder of life’s biggest reality has been the sudden death of Alex Salmond. This is a name known to everyone in Scotland, most people in England, and not a few beyond. He was a former First Minister of Scotland, leader of the Scottish National Party (and beyond that Scottish nationalists in general), and general pest and thorn in the side of UK governments of every political stripe. He died last Saturday from heart attack, having made a speech, far from home, at a conference in North Macedonia. While a man with many political opponents, the subsequent tributes have shown that he was much respected and had many friends across the political spectrum. I have no idea what his opinions were on religious matters. Interestingly, he one described himself as a “Church of Scotland adherent”. So, not a believer, not a Christian, not even a Presbyterian, simply an “adherent” of one of Scotland’s mainline, and declining, protestant denominations. I’m not sure I really know what that means. Maybe that was the idea. He famously fell out with fellow nationalists in the Scottish Government, was subject of various inquiries, and was cleared of criminal charges (including charges of rape and sexual assault). While found not guilty (and “not proven” on one of the charges) by a jury after only six hours of deliberation, the trial did reveal patterns of behaviour that even his own defence counsel accepted might be construed as “inappropriate” (while falling short of criminality). But the trial, and the political and governmental machinations that surrounded it, revealed an unpleasant side to Scottish political life at the highest level. This has probably contributed to the demise of Salmond’s former party, the SNP. And while he was, and obviously felt, vindicated by his criminal trial, he was still seeking legal redress at the time of his death.

Perhaps more poignantly, he was speaking in Macedonia about democracy. But it was democracy that had delivered his most stinging defeat (while also bizarrely marking his biggest achievement). He successfully persuaded the Cameron UK government to hold a referendum on Scottish independence, and even got to choose the question on the ballot. And yet the people, by a convincing margin (much wider than in the Brexit referendum), rejected his view and voted to remain part of the United Kingdom. If all political careers end in failure (to misquote Enoch Powell), then you might have thought that to come relatively close to achieving a lifetime goal, see it dashed democratically by your own people (he was a nationalist after all), and then watch its likelihood recede even further because of the missteps and incompetence of your successors, would have been crushing. But by all accounts Salmond remained up for the struggle. Not “no” for him. He was ready to go again. But then he unexpectedly ran out of time. There are many who are shocked, and are left reflecting on the meaning of it all. One wonders how long it will be before their minds return to mundane and mortal matters, and they avert them once again from what is perhaps the most pressing of issues.

But I’ve known lots of others, not superstars or elite politicians, who have looked (or indeed not looked) and found the answer to our obvious mortality. And it is certainly not to ignore it. Over the years we’ve had various Bible study groups meeting in our home. And, over the years, some of the folk who we met with weekly, have died. In a number of cases I still walk past their former homes; I’m often reminded of them. All of them have left a gap of course, particularly for their immediate families, but also for that wider circle of which we were a part. And, along with their families we have grieved. The experience is inevitably difficult and challenging. And yet the folk I’m thinking of were Christian folk. I don’t mean that in the sense that they belonged to a certain culture, attended particular meetings, assented to particular religious propositions. What I mean is that they actually knew someone who had died (in a particularly gruesome manner), and yet returned shortly thereafter to life. When he eventually left our immediate vicinity he promised that he had not merely escaped death, but had overcome it. His claim was that those of us who knew him would be beneficiaries of what he had accomplished and share in this victory. Because of the culture that we are now all embedded in, this all reads like bizarre nonsense. Mystical and mysterious at best, deceptive and dangerous at the worst. But that is more apparent than real. What I have seen is the transformative power of the life and death of Jesus Christ time after time, in part if not yet completely.

Thinking about the moment of death is, I think, no more attractive to the Christian (the “Christ follower”) than it is for anyone else. And yet, emptied of its power to terrify and paralyse, death and its aftermath do bear thinking about. Because after the inevitable fall (if fall it is), there is now for those in Christ an equally inevitable, but much more comforting, rise in prospect. Thinking about life and death needn’t be any kind of a downer.

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.

Easter retuning…..

We all perceive through filters. While this has a specific technical meaning, the technicalities needn’t detain us for too long; the general point is easily understood. Take vision (or seeing) as an example. Technically, because our visual system is designed to work in a particular visual environment (or if you prefer, it evolved in a particular context), it has assumptions built into its structure. Another way of saying this is that visual information comes to us through a number of filtered channels. Provided these remain appropriate, everything works fairly well and we can see what we need to see to do the things we have to do. Of course, in order to tease out exactly how this all works, sneaky scientists find ways of tweaking the circumstances in which a participant's visual system has to work (‘tweaked circumstances’ is essentially what an experiment is) to trip it up. This, it turns out, is not hard; it is the basis of visual illusions – stimuli that induce misperceptions. You can find lots online with which you can fool your own visual system. Personally, I rather like the “change blindness” phenomenon (although technically this is more an attentional than visual type of illusion). You can find a classic example here; see if you can spot what is changing as photographs are presented to you. If you can’t work it out (most people do eventually), the answer is at the end of this post. The general point is that we easily miss things that are different from our usual experience and expectations, that violate the assumptions we inevitably make about what is going on around us. Rather, we tend to assume that we are very aware of everything that is going on around us, and certainly that if anything important was going on, we’d certainly notice it.

Not surprisingly, what applies at the relatively low level of perception also occurs in different, arguably more complicated, contexts. Consider all that Peter and the other disciples of Jesus of Nazareth had seen and heard as they followed Jesus all over first century Palestine. Let’s take the shortest of the Gospel accounts of the experience they accumulated over a period of about three years, the one composed by Mark. Early on they are sufficiently impressed by Jesus and what he has to say to respond positively when he calls them to follow him. It’s unclear what they thought they were getting themselves into. Perhaps a private club or religious society? Perhaps they initially hoped that this would eventually develop into a larger popular movement of national revival. And yet from the outset this was a rather strange grouping (particularly in its membership), being told strange things by Jesus. They heard and saw Jesus’ explicit and implicit claims to be God! He claimed to be able to forgive sin and claimed authority over their holy day, the Sabbath. In a wilderness setting, just like the one they would remember from their national history as recorded in Exodus, he did the impossible and provided bread for thousands, something their history told them God had uniquely done in the past. Jesus healed the excluded and delivered the spiritually enslaved. He even restored the nearly and newly dead, as well as raised the thoroughly dead. What did they make of this? Not much at the time is probably the answer, as they, along with the crowds that Jesus often encountered, reacted in astonishment time after time. Much of what Jesus was saying and doing seems to have been as foreign to them, as out of kilter with their usual daily experience, as it is to ours.

But as well as publicly observable demonstrations and teaching, the disciples had personal time with Jesus that was way beyond what was accessible to the crowds. They could, and did, ask questions and for explanations. Jesus went out of his way to explain to them what he was saying, and indeed describe what was going to happen to him before it happened. Three times in Mark, and at particular points, he explains that he is going to be rejected, abused and killed, and that he was going to rise from the dead. Mark records that particularly this last point was completely lost on the disciples. It obviously was not to be taken literally; Jesus could not mean that having ceased to be alive he would return to life in any real sense. Like us, they understood the basic realities of life and death, how the universe worked – we live and we die, end of. There might be notions of some sort of existence after the point of death, but that was a matter of philosophy or complicated theology; it belonged with talk of spirits and collective memorialising of the dead. It wasn’t a real sort of thing, at least not really real. So, obviously Jesus had to be dealing in metaphors and pictures. But what could they mean? Eventually, as Jesus became ever more explicit about both his impending death and his rising from the dead, the disciples just stopped asking him what he meant.

So what were their expectations as they eventually arrived in Jerusalem, the location where Jesus had been telling them he would die and rise again? Perhaps they were swept up in the excitement of the welcoming crowds who thought they knew exactly what Jesus was about. Perhaps they hoped that Jesus’ talk of rejection and death was just that, talk. Things seemed to be on a more promising track. Here they were in at the religious and civil heart of their people, and it seemed Jesus was indeed about to lead a popular movement, with perhaps the disciples playing the role of trusted lieutenants. But then Jesus goes and messes it up. He seems to go out of his way to outrage the religious and civil authorities. In an apparently monumental miscalculation he even turns one of his own intimate circle against himself, such that one of his followers called Judas is prepared to conspire with the authorities to have Jesus arrested. The rest, as they say, is history. Perhaps you have been rehearsing some of it today on “Good Friday”. The tragic end to a promising beginning. And yet, had they really listened they might have known that things were not as they seemed. This was not a tragedy unfolding, not an ending, and more of a continuation than a beginning.

But then what was going on was so beyond their experience and expectations that inevitably they were no more able to understand it than we are today without external intervention. Their filters were on the wrong setting as it were. Their starting assumptions were wrong. And still today there is something about the way we are constituted that makes it hard to see and hear what's going on with Jesus. Even if we think it is worth trying to, it is hard to get beyond the mere rehearsal of historical events to a transforming understanding of the what and the why of his death in those appalling circumstances of rejection, betrayal, mockery, abuse, suffering and death. Fortunately the same help is available to us as would eventually allow Jesus’ first disciples (or at least eleven of them) to process the raw material of what they had seen and heard and understand what was going on. It takes nothing less than God himself, through his own word, by means of his own Spirit, to cut through our natural way of thinking and the expectations it generates, to retune our filters, so we can know, understand and respond to Jesus. Fortunately for us, he has always been happy to do exactly this. Just try asking.

And if you still don't get what changing in the 'change blindness' demo, pay attention to the engine under the wing of the aircraft in the pictures. Imagine not seeing that!

"Of the making of books......"

A new year, and a new pile of books has appeared (as if by magic). It is just a little pile for the moment. One of them is part of a longer term project and I won’t really be able to tackle it properly for a while, but I was being pushed for Christmas present suggestions. Another is a holdover from 2023 which I’ve nearly finished reading. The rest are the “next” in the queue to be read. I get the feeling that the writer of Ecclesiastes was a bit ambivalent abut books, even at a time when there were far fewer of them about (see what he has to say about them in Ecc 12:12). These days all sorts of things get published. Just because something appears in a book (or is published in a journal as I used to stress to students) doesn’t guarantee good sense, wisdom or helpfulness. But I’m reasonably hopeful this pile will get my reading year off to a good start.

At the bottom of the pile is the Tyndale House Greek New Testament (Reader’s Edition, published by Crossway). Foundational to reading, and more importantly to understanding, is what God has to say. He sets the agenda and provides the framework. God is a speaking God, and although not knowable apart from his revelation of himself, what he says is understandable in any language. We all think using a framework that consists of a cloud of background assumptions and commonplaces. It’s important to know where it comes from. I want mine to depend on what God has said in his word, the Bible. What was written by the human authors of the Bible was obviously written down in a language other than English. However, it looses none of its power when translated, whether into English or any other language. This was a major bone of contention at the time of the Reformation, although the issue was really who had the authority to interpret Scripture. Ordinary believers were claimed not to be able or allowed to interpret it for themselves, so why let them read it in their own language? There is also a contrast here with Islam. The Koran only carries authority when read and cited in Arabic. As Pickthall wrote of his own English translation “The Quran cannot be translated. [This] is only an attempt to present the meaning of the Quran … in English. It can never take the place of the Quran in Arabic, nor is it meant to do so.”

So why bother learning New Testament Greek? Because not everything is equally clear and straightforward as the New Testament itself says (e.g. see 2 Peter 3:16), and all translation involves a degree of interpretation. To get into the mind of the writers in their own language is to gain a useful new perspective. Therefore, rather later than I probably should have, I’ve embarked on learning New Testament Greek. It won’t be a quick or easy process. But I hope to have completed the basics over the next eight months or so, and then there’s the possibility of progressing to some of the language modules offered by Union where I did my MTh. Perhaps by the year’s end, I’ll be able to read the odd verse here or there.

The holdover is Barclay’s “Paul & the Gift”; I started it last month (i.e. last year). It takes a bit of reading and illustrates why getting on top of NT Greek can be so useful. Barclay explores Paul’s use of the idea of a gift (linked with concepts like grace and mercy). You might wonder why this is needed given that the writing in question has been around for two thousand years or so. My view is that the big picture is fairly clear and easily understood. In my natural state I cannot work my way into acceptability with a God who is perfect, holy and just. But neither can he just “let me off” as an act of “simple” mercy – that would be outrageously unjust; he would become something less than he is. And if he just lets me off, what about you? That looks suspiciously capricious as well as unjust. So instead he does something daring in the extreme not to say surprising. He takes my punishment on himself (in the person of Jesus) and then he lets me off. Turns out it is simple. But then again it isn’t really. This leaves all sorts of issues hanging. Some of the complications are to do with how Paul discusses all of this especially in his letters to the Romans and the Galatians (hence the usefulness of the Greek, which Barclay quotes and discusses in detail). Some of the issues are to do with how Paul’s writing relates to the Judaism of his day, and how this is to be understood (something that changes from time to time). And some of it has to do with the ways we think today about gift and grace, which turns out to be different to what these things meant in the ancient world. All well worth exploring in more detail, which Barclay certainly does.

Sounds a bit heavy. Much shorter is Peter Williams “The Surprising Genius of Jesus” which is primarily a look at what is commonly called the “parable of the prodigal”. Williams, now principal of Tyndale House, was involved in producing the Greek NT I’m looking forward to being able to read, and is an expert in Greek (and other things). So this will again be about the specifics of the language Jesus uses and how he tunes it to the precise context of his original audience. William's point is that this is done with such skill that Jesus demonstrates not just the genius of an expert story teller but the genius of the original author; he is of course both.

I have some philosophy/philosophical theology in my pile In the form of Plantinga’s “Knowledge and Christian Belief” and Tyson’s “A Christian Theology of Science” (which I mentioned briefly previously). How do we know what we think we know? Plantinga is perhaps best known for his book “Warranted Christian Knowledge”, but the book in my pile is later, shorter and perhaps an easier read. No doubt to the bemusement of that rarest of beasts the “new atheist”, Christian belief (along with lots of other wild and wacky stuff) is potentially respectable again. This may be the product of a culture that has privatised belief and elevated the principle of tolerance to totemic status. If sincerely held belief is beyond criticism (at least when privately held and not inflicted on others), then this must apply to Christian beliefs. Where such beliefs raise their head in public, say in academic debate, they should be given a polite hearing, if only to be dismissed as just someone else’s “truth”. Tyson seeks to give priority to Christian belief (or at least theology) over even science. That this should be at all entertained is very different to the attitudes I was exposed to as a student forty years ago. It was taken for granted that progress, particularly in science, meant we could dispense with certain types of belief which were only for the weak-minded. How things have changed, at least superficially.

Some history next: a two volume biography of Selina, the Countess of Huntingdon (obtained from the excellent Kernaghan's bookshop) and Richard Turnbull’s biography of Shaftesbury (“Shaftesbury: The Great Reformer”). Selina was an influential participant in the “Great Awakening” of the eighteenth century. Although almost forgotten now, she was one of the great supporters of George Whitefield and a number of other prominent preachers. What the Awakening achieved is disputed by historians, but arguably is saved Great Britain from the kind of revolution that afflicted France at the end of the eighteenth century, and laid the basis for major social reforms in the nineteenth. Some of these were implemented by Shaftesbury, hence the idea of reading about the two together. I confess that I’m looking forward to these as “light relief” meaning no disrespect to their authors. I love reading history and had the privilege of studying the history and theology of evangelicalism with Richard Turnbull not that long ago. He was kind enough to give us his copies of his book, so I’ve felt morally obliged to read it for a while. I’m sure it will be a treat.

Finally on the pile is John Wyatt’s account of his friendship with John Stott (“Transforming Friendship”). John Stott was probably almost as influential as Shaftesbury but at a very different time and in a very different way. I was attracted to this book because at its heart is a friendship, the topic of my dissertation. That was dry, clipped, academic, referenced – it was theory. Wyatt’s book is of interest because it is about personal practicality. An interesting contrast.

So, these are the books that make up my initial pile for 2024. Looks like a good reading year already.