Although it says in my blurb that this blog is partly a family blog, I have rarely (if ever) written here about my family. I suppose that’s partly because bearing my soul is one thing (not that I have), but bearing the souls of others seems (at least to me) a bit tasteless, intrusive and unfair. They all are their own people after all, persons and not mere objects to be dissected, examined and discussed publicly. But all families have significant milestones, and we reached one a few weeks ago. While it was not particularly pleasant, neither was it ugly. And while it would be wrong to claim that it was the sort of thing one looks forward to, it was something that was inevitable and to that extent expected.
My dad, known to most people as Charlie, was born on the 4th June, 1934, and died on the 6th January, 2026, aged 91. We buried his mortal remains on 28th January. He lived what to many would seem a very ordinary life, and I suppose to many he seemed a very ordinary sort of man. But I am one of only two people in the whole wide world who could call him dad. And in that I was privileged. In terms of the usual metrics by which we tend to attribute value, he was neither rich or particularly successful. He was born, lived and died in Glasgow, and never travelled particularly extensively. He wasn’t brilliant academically and didn’t have much in terms of school qualifications. He didn’t build up a business empire or climb to the top of one of the professional greasy poles. He trained as a joiner (a carpenter in other parts of the world). He was a very good joiner (and plumber, plasterer and maker of interesting toys); he used his skills mainly to make our lives more comfortable rather than to make money or obtain fame. He was a husband, dad, grandad, uncle and friend to many. But this list leaves out the one thing that made him the man (and dad) he was, and explains his enduring influence. He was a Christian.
It is said of lots of folk that when they were alive they were a gentleman. Occasionally, even still, that might be qualified by the adjective “Christian”. “Christian gentleman” was a term used of dad at his funeral service; I think this was apt. It could be taken to mean lots of things. I take it to mean something very specific. When he was a teenager dad had a personal encounter with Jesus (the Jesus who is described, and whose words are recorded in the Gospels). Now I know that logically such a claim will be taken by some to mean that dad was deluded. These days it is perhaps more likely that such a claim will be politely indulged as his “truth” (and respected as such). But as such it would not have much significance beyond dad. But he didn’t see things that way, and did not talk about encountering Jesus personally as something of only personal significance. He saw this as a real encounter that marked the beginning of a relationship, a relationship that was in no way weakened or diminished on the 6th January. I was one of many beneficiaries of that relationship, because he introduced me to the same Jesus. I don’t mean that he showed me into a room in which someone was standing and said “This is Jesus”. He didn’t have to. In fact, over the years he said very little to us directly. He had his expectation of us, but these were rarely articulated. But he made sure that we knew who Jesus was, and what he had done, and what he had claimed. And he largely left it up to us to decide what to do with the information, how to respond to it while he just carried on being dad.
What greatly eased the last few week of his life was the knowledge that he remained secure in that relationship that began when he was a teenager. It was obviously not a passing phase; it lasted the length of the rest of his life, and beyond. It brought us certainty and hope where very often I have observed fear and despair. Instead of euphemisms and platitudes, we had truth, and I am even tempted to say certainty. Certainty has, of course, become deeply unfashionable. That which was once assumed to bring certainty has been systematically attacked and undermined, and apparently abandoned by many. For some this brings with it the advantage of living without the constraints familiar to former generations. The claim is that by throwing off the shackles derived from, for example, the Bible, we have arrived in a period of freedom. While of value to humanity at an earlier period in our development, the guardrail and guide trusted in previous times are no longer needed. How is that all working out? Whether with regard to family dynamics, sexual ethics, public values and behaviour, not well it would seem. Not that there was ever a golden age when all was peace and light. But it does not seem as through we have evolved and arrived at a place of contentment; the former myths of inevitable progress seemed to have turned to ash. Dad grew up in the war years, in the east end of Glasgow. He grew up in no idyll and knew a much harder life that I ever did (in part thanks to him). He was a realist and practical man, not an idealist and philosopher. And yet, in his relationship with Jesus, he was transformed, and that relationship endured.
And now? Well there is much I cheerfully admit I do not know. I can’t tell you where dad is with any geographical confidence, But I can tell who he is with. I can’t tell you in any great detail what state he is in, but I can tell you it is much better than any other state he could be in bar one – his final state. I know that his current state is no longer embodied, because we put his body in a wooden coffin and buried it, yet he was not there. So he now exists in a disembodied state. I know these things because I have been told them, they have been revealed by the same source who revealed much else that I have found in my own experience to be reliable. Now I, like dad, could be completely deluded. That we should both share the same delusion, deriving comfort and hope from it, seems a bit unlikely but is clearly logically possible. And of course I cannot know with mathematical certainty that if and when my time comes, like dad, I will rest secure in Jesus awaiting a future day when I again will be embodied and will live again, with dad and many others besides, in a much different world. But I was never really that impressed with mathematical certainty because it only ever seemed to apply in very specific mathematical circumstances, quite removed from the rest of life (and death). I’ll stick with the certainty of faith. A faith that was demonstrated and lived out before my very eyes by dad, one that is shared rather than inherited.
