Life in the pandemic XXVI Words and the “death” of postmodernism

I have led a fairly sheltered intellectual and academic existence, just one of many advantages working on the science side of a modern University campus. Modern universities don’t really operate as universities of course. Ideally a university should be a community of scholars with cross-fertilization of ideas across a wide range of disciplines and outlooks. The idea is that even very different disciplines can enlighten and stimulate each other. I can’t be the only scientist to whom good ideas have come while sitting in a seminar whose topic is light years away from some current piece of gristle I’ve been chewing on. However, someone once quipped that academia is the business of getting to know more and more about less and less. On this logic, professors know everything about nothing. Would it be remiss of me to point out that I’m a mere Reader? But it is a fact that we tend to hunker down in ever tighter intellectual cliques and tribes as time and careers progress. Eventually the cell and molecular biologists rarely see those who work on the behaviour of whole organisms, never encounter those (still within the scientific family) who reside in the departments of the physical (as opposed to biological) sciences, and are barely aware of those mythical creatures across the road (actually usually across several roads) who deal in words or thought, sound or pictures. That said, such isolation does have its advantages.

Most of us in the scientific world are probably best described as “modern” in the way we go about our task. This doesn’t sound too bad until you understand that since the 1960s or thereabouts, “modernism” has been seen as dangerous tomfoolery by many of our more arty colleagues who generally consider themselves post-modernists. Modernism is that post-enlightenment mode of thinking that elevates human reason as the key tool for obtaining objective knowledge about the world around us, providing a sure way for humanity to progress. It has been both powered and validated by the apparent success of science and technology. However, it has always had its critics. Romanticism in the late 18^th and early 19^th centuries was an early harbinger of trouble ahead. While the power and success of science seemed hard to deny, the materialism that usually accompanied modernity (and it was sometimes a radical materialism) seemed to leave something important out of the account. And the kind of progress science and technology generated wasn’t always perceived as an unalloyed good. The same industrialisation that provided economic progress for many, spawned dark satanic mills for some. Diseases may have been conquered, but poverty killed thousands. And even scientific endeavour had some ugly pseudoscientific offspring in the form of movements like social Darwinism and eugenics.

Bubbling away under the surface were the intellectual forces that eventually led to the “postmodernism” that emerged in the 1960s, sweeping all before it. Or at least it appeared to. Defining postmodernism is a bit like trying to eat soup with a fork; it’s an enterprise doomed to failure. But definitions abound. Britannica defines it as “a late 20th-century movement characterized by broad scepticism, subjectivism, or relativism; a general suspicion of reason; and an acute sensitivity to the role of ideology in asserting and maintaining political and economic power.” Postmodernism came to be seen as a broad attack on the kind of reason and reasoning that we thought we depended upon in science, and even on the idea that words carry meaning and allow sensible discourse about a world “out there”. There was a specifically scientific manifestation of postmodernism in the form of Kuhn’s famous book “The structure of scientific revolutions” (discussed briefly here). This sought to reduce progress in science, in which a new theory or approach displaces and old one, to a type of “conversion” experience; scientific “progress” (so Kuhn’s critics claimed) was being reduced to a series of almost irrational leaps. Not that most of us scientists were that bothered you understand. Much of this “revolution” passed us by in our isolation from such intellectual fashions.

Perhaps it was because in principle we have to deal with reality as it is (or at least as we perceive it to be). All scientist are in some sense “realists” – there is a real external world, independent of my ideas and feelings about it, that can be prodded and poked. The methods that had stood us in good stead for a couple of centuries, seemed still, indeed seem still, to serve us well. So we left our colleagues in the humanities and social sciences to argue the toss over who was oppressing whom by this or that word or sentence, continued to prod and poke, wrote up and published our results, refined and refuted, and generally just got on with things. Admittedly, neither we nor our students thought as hard as we should have done about the thinking we were actually doing (something I lamented here). But, as the pandemic has demonstrated, it’s probably just as well that we did "just get on with it". Some of the most powerful tools that have led to effective vaccines being delivered in record time stem from just quietly beavering away. And perhaps that’s why, particularly in the pandemic, postmodernism appears to be in big trouble. At least in its more extreme forms it has been unmasked as is a diversion, an entertainment and an indulgence that can’t cope with hard realities. The science that is now saving lives has turned out to be more important than academic word games.

Personally, while not a complete fan of modernism (reason has always had its limits), some of postmodernism’s contentions always seemed ridiculous to me. There is a whole strand that prizes obscure language and then seeks to claim that reason must always be subverted by slippery communication with mixed motives. Words cannot be trusted to accurately convey meaning, they are inevitably ambiguous. The problem is that the proponents of these views apparently thought this only applied to other people’s words; their words were to be taken at face value. But this has to be a sort of self-refuting proposition. But it gets worse. It was the postmoderns’ deliberately obscure and convoluted language that turned out to be easily subverted and exploited by parody.

Famously, the physicist Alan Sokal composed a nonsense paper and submitted it to a prominent academic journal (Social Text). The paper went through the normal (rigorous?) review processes of the journal, and was accepted for publication in a revised form. It was, in Sokal’s words “brimming with absurdities and blatant non sequiturs” but was actually published in a special edition of the journal. The aftermath of the hoax, and the debate which followed, are detailed by Sokal and Bricmont in their book “Intellectual Impostures”. This was not a one off. In 2018 essentially the same thing was done on a much larger scale. Twenty fake papers were submitted to a number of prominent academic journals, bastions of postmodern thought in various forms. Of the 20 papers, seven were accepted for publication, and most of the others might well have been had not the perpetrators called time on their hoax. Only six of the twenty were thrown out. This was a field in trouble.

It turns out the trouble may be have been terminal. Having almost missed the “death”of new atheism, I may actually have missed the death of postmodernism. Before some of us had even begun to grapple with it at our end of the campus, Alan Kirby was writing in “Philosophy Now” that we all really should be post-postmodernists. That was back in 2006. It seems that words do convey meaning, and reason is reasonable again.  Some of us never thought anything different.

Life in the pandemic XXV The touching faith of atheists…….

Atheism, in its various forms, has a very old and in some quarters a cherished history. It’s a history that many modern-day atheists seem to be ignorant of, something I discussed a while ago. As you may have gathered, I am not an atheist. But I’m interested in the views of folk who are. I admit that this is partly out of curiosity. As the views and ideas of most atheists (at least the ones who have thought about it) are different to my way of thinking, it’s hardly surprising that they evoke curiosity. There’s also the possibility that there is something fundamental they’ve noticed that I’ve missed. And I suppose the writer of Ecclesiastes could have been wrong; something “new under the sun” could crop up that finally demonstrates, once and for all, that there can be no God. This seems unlikely (although I would say that), but for the sake of friendly interaction I’m prepared to accept this as a logical possibility.

It was in this spirit that I was interested to read an atheist writing about atheism. John Gray’s “Seven Types of Atheism” is readable, entertaining and short (only 150-odd pages in my 2019 Penguin paperback). I don’t suppose all atheists will agree with either his classification or his analysis, but neither do I think anyone will accuse him of rampant misrepresentation. In particular, he in no way writes as a theist critic. He remains quite content with his own atheist position, which he identifies as being closest to a couple of the categories he describes. It is worth noting a the outset that there is a close resemblance between what Grey writes and the thrust of Tom Holland’s “Dominion” (discussed  briefly here). It is terrifically hard to drive out the intellectual and cultural effects of 2000 years of Christian monotheism (and before that Jewish monotheism) and start thinking from (or to) a genuinely different position. It is a big task to find new concepts not dependant on the same foundations as the repudiated system, even if such a thing is possible. This was something that Nietzsche cottoned on to, but apparently not so many others before or since. In his early chapters Grey insists that this leads to a sort of lazy atheism that essentially maintains categories that actually need God, but simply swapping Him for someone or something else. Gray accuses secular humanists of doing this, swapping God for humanity, and then not noticing that the resulting system doesn’t work. Apart from anything else, Gray thinks that this is doomed to fail because humanity doesn’t exist as a single, functional entity; it is a myth inherited from monotheism: “’Humanity’ is not going to turn itself into God, because ‘humanity’ does not exist”. His point is that all we really see is lots of individual human beings with “intractable enmities and divisions”, not a single organism capable of fulfilling God’s role.

But time and again Gray also throws up interesting little insights into the sayings and doings of important atheist thinkers. Many of them seem to be stark examples of what is alluded to in a quotation often attributed to G.K. Chesterton: “ When men chose not to believe in God, they do not thereafter believe in nothing. They then become capable of believing in anything.” For example, Grey calls Henry Sidgwick “one of the greatest 19^th century minds”. But having lost his faith, he hoped science would supply him with the meaning he now felt he lacked. Bizarrely, he eventually turned to psychical research, and Grey quotes him as telling a friend later in life  “As I look back …. I see little but wasted hours”. Nietzsche was prepared to put his faith in a few exception human beings, “supermen” who could “will into being the meaning God had once secured”. Grey’s main point is that even arguing that the redemption of humanity by such “supermen” was required or could be accomplished, demonstrated that Nietzsche continued to be held captive by Christian concepts he so deeply despised and had declared dead. But it’s been a while now since Nietzsche’s scheme. No sign of his “supermen”.

Grey is also fairly severe on the idea of the inevitable human progress so beloved of many scientifically minded atheists over the last couple of centuries. This appears to be one of their supreme acts of faith. But as he points out, no-one can really agree what constitutes progress or what it might mean in the future. And there is precious little evidence of overall net progress for the mass of humanity. You might think that this surely goes too far. After all, in technology hasn’t the invention and growth of the internet brought tremendous benefits? I can sit on my sofa and book my next holiday or order my dinner. I can find the answer (or at least an answer) to almost any question using my smartphone. But then this same technology has brought new problems and crises not conceived of previously, like the rise of  social media persecution (which has already cost lives) and the cyber world as a new venue for crime and warfare. But in medicine, haven’t we eradicated some of humanity’s most serious disease? The obvious retort is yes, but oh the irony. Here was are in a global pandemic in which the old scourges have been replaced by a new one, with more around the corner aided and abetted by modern human behaviour. Faith in the progress of humanity (even if you think “it” exists) is touching, but hardly evidenced based!

Grey assembles a bewildering cast of characters with no interest in the God of the Bible, and often resolutely dedicated to denigrating and disproving Christianity as anything more than a fable, and quite possibly a dangerous fable at that. Some were aggressive in their denunciations, some more muted and less evangelical. Many I suspect would be bemused by Christianity’s continuing ability to attract adherents, and its continuing ability to play any a role in thought and intellectual discourse.

Grey quotes Schopenhauer as writing in 1851: “A religion which has at its foundation a single event …. has so feeble a foundation that it cannot possibly survive.” Such faith. Touching. But sorry Arthur, misplaced.

Life in the pandemic XXIV Alice through the twitter glass…….

I am fairly sure that (most) humanists are nice people. Certainly, the current president of Humanists UK, Alice Roberts, has always struck me as quite nice. I haven’t met her personally of course, but she pops up on the telly in the UK fairly frequently, usually presenting broadly scientific documentaries. They are often very interesting and …. nice. Alice recently got involved in an Easter twitter spat, which she kicked off by tweeting the following around teatime on Good Friday: “Just a little reminder today. Dead people - don’t come back to life.” At the time of writing, this tweet had been “liked” almost 12000 times, and commented on just over 3000 times. The responses were the sort of mixed bag that we’ve all come to expect in the twittersphere. Some were delighted, others were derogatory, and some tweets intimated a degree of disappointment. One line of criticism was that while Alice is quite entitled not to share the beliefs of Christians celebrating Easter, it was disrespectful to tweet as she had done on that particular day. To which she responded: “I don’t have to respect unscientific beliefs.”

Fair enough. After all, respect cannot be forced, and to that extent of course she doesn’t “have to” respect anything. Her critics might (and some did) respond that, particularly as a public figure, she also doesn’t have to parade her lack of respect for particular beliefs in so public a manner, at a time calculated to cause offense. Now, while I’m prepared to believe that the intention was not to offend (and as I discussed previously, Christians of all people should be quite difficult to offend), some pointed out that she has a bit of form in this regard, getting into a previous twitter spat in the gender recognition debate. What’s of more interest is Alice’s comment about “unscientific beliefs”.

It’s not that Alice has a problem with unscientific beliefs in general. I can say with some certainty that there are many beliefs she holds which are unscientific, but which she finds perfectly respectable (otherwise she wouldn’t hold them). I can say this because precisely the same is true of us all. She is a professor of the “public understanding of science”. I take it that she believes that a scientifically knowledgeable public is a good thing, something she and I would agree on. This is a belief that is perfectly worthy of respect, but it is not a scientific belief. Few of the many beliefs that all of us have are. It seems that Alice’s problem is with specific unscientific beliefs, that she feels she can take a pop at. At the top of this list appear to be the beliefs held and taught by Christians.

This is of course is no surprise. Alice is, after all, president of Humanists UK. In a recent interview she stated her belief that “Living a good life comes from you, from employing your own human faculties of reason and empathy and love.” Now, what are we to make of such a belief? For my part, I find it perfectly respectable, and feel no need to poke fun at it. However, it is clearly not in any sense scientific. It is both highly debateable and over centuries has been hotly debated. And it is in my view, respectfully, deeply flawed. But it is not flawed because it is unscientific. Science doesn’t deal in such terms as “good” and “love”, and can’t be used to settle whether this belief is better than any other belief for this or that purpose. Science is entirely the wrong tool to use, in the same way a screwdriver isn’t appropriate for hammering nails.

Of course the game Alice is playing is to portray her humanism as non-religious, rational and scientific, and Christian belief (and presumably other religious beliefs) as unscientific, irrational, and therefore not worthy of her respect. The problem is that the distinction being drawn doesn’t work. It turns out that Alice’s brand of humanism, secular humanism, actually has distinctly religious origins, and was at least originally conceived as a competing religion. As Humanists UK make clear on their website, they grew out late 19^th century “Ethical Societies”, many of which originated within the Christian tradition, but gradually rejected key features of Christian belief, until laterally all traces of supernaturalism were thrown off. However, well into the 20^th century “Ethical” churches were meeting, singing “ethical” hymns and listening to sermons. Sounds familiar. And this isn’t just historical baggage that humanists might claim is ancient history that is now irrelevant. The contemporary manifestation of such ideas (besides Humanists UK) is the Sunday Assembly; interestingly the founding London branch meets in Conway Hall which is owned by one of the original Ethical Societies. The Sunday Assembly was founded by two comedians who “wanted to do something that was like church”. While I find all of this perfectly respectable, it does sound a bit (say it quietly) religious. One might be tempted to tweet that it was all a bit “unscientific”.

I am not the only one to detect these religious undertones in secular humanism. A recent reviewer of John Gray’s “Seven Types of Atheism” reported Gray as being of the view that “humanists are in bad faith”. He continued “Most of them are atheists, but all they have done is substitute humanity for God. They thus remain in thrall to the very religious faith they reject.” Thoroughly shaking off the trappings of Christian belief and patterns of thought, it turns out, is really tricky. Alice, who has confirmed on twitter that she is indeed an atheist, has work to do.

Humanists of Alice’s stripe are not even entitled to exclusive use of the title “humanist”, as though they uniquely have the best interests of their fellow human beings at heart. The word has a long and distinctively Christian history. Again back in the 19^th century, it came to be used for an intellectual movement originating in the Renaissance, and later luminaries such as Erasmus of Rotterdam combined Biblical thought with classical philosophical traditions (among other things). This was a distinctly Christian humanism and there continues to be an important strand of it within the Evangelical tradition, exemplified by the likes of Packer and Howard in their book “Christianity: the True Humanism”. There is a simple reason that it makes sense to talk of Christian humanism. If humanism at its heart is about human beings finding true fulfilment (an aim I think Alice would agree is a worthy one), then Biblical Christianity has two important things to say (neither of which Alice would agree with). The first is that secular humanism has historically failed and will continue to fail to address humanity’s deepest needs, because it denies that these exist. The second is that it is in God’s self-revelation of Himself in Jesus Christ that we will find the answers to our deepest needs. And of course this brings us back to Easter.

I can confirm that it is indeed the case that in general (at least at the moment) dead people do not come back to life. I accept that anyone who denies this as a general proposition is in need of sympathy, if not some form of mental health intervention. But I can also confirm that this general principle was violated on at least one occasion in history. This is not a contradiction, nor is it a scientific statement. But neither is it irrational. There is evidence to be evaluated. Have a go Alice.

Life in the pandemic XXIII: Easter Reflections – No offense, but……

I recently mentioned my liking for reading history (at the time I was reading McGrath on reformation thought). I am happy to report that I progressed from reading about the Reformation specifically, to reading about just about everything else. Well, not quite. I’ve been reading Tom Holland’s “Dominion” (reviewed here in "The Critic") which covers from about 500BC to the modern day. His mission is to answer a question:

 “How was it that a cult inspired by the execution of an obscure criminal in a long-vanished empire came to exercise such a transformative and enduring influence on the world?” 

Interesting as it is, this is Holland’s question and I don’t want to answer here. You can, after all, read his book (which I recommend). But particularly given that Easter has come round again, it is worth contemplating the particular execution that Holland mentions - the crucifixion of Jesus of Nazareth by the Roman administration in Jerusalem, around 30AD. As Holland goes to some lengths to explain, there is no doubt that this was viewed in a particular way by those who witnessed and heard about it originally. But today it is viewed completely differently (even by many followers of Jesus). And in that change we’ve lost something. Because, to many in the first century and for some time thereafter, the mere idea of crucifixion was utterly offensive. Today we’ve somehow reduced the cross to a silver trinket.

Crucifixion wasn’t invented by the Romans, but it was developed and honed by them, and then employed particularly for the execution of slaves and rebels. While it was occasionally used on an industrial scale, its use in peacetime was more targeted. Besides being a particularly painful and unpleasant way of dying (hence “excruciating”), it was associated with humiliation, and was specifically designed to be so. So if you had wanted to invent a religion that would be attractive in a world dominated by Rome, having crucifixion at the heart of it would not be a very bright move. As Holland says, it “….could not help but be seen by people everywhere across the Roman world as scandalous, obscene, grotesque.” That anyone would follow a leader who had been crucified was preposterous. To claim that the leader in question was a god was beyond preposterous. The mere idea was an insult to the Roman intelligence and offensive in itself.

There was one other group that was likely to be even more outraged at the idea of a crucified God than the Romans. Apparently plotting and then successfully driving Jesus towards crucifixion was the Jewish religious leadership of the day. Their apparent enthusiasm for the crucifixion of Jesus (as opposed to His stoning or some other form of death) was perhaps because it would provide the most obvious evidence that Jesus claim to be God was a complete and odious fiction. The idea that the eternal God could die was a contradiction in the first place. But crucifixion would provide the most brutal demonstration of Jesus’ folly. How, after that, would anyone be able to claim that Jesus was anything other than an attention-seeking fake of the worst kind, with no sense of religious, cultural or civic decency.   

However, as it transpired, the followers of this Jesus had the temerity not just to claim that Jesus was God, but that this most horrifying of deaths had some central role to play in God’s dealings with men and women. They preached not just Christ, but Christ crucified. You could not come up with any proposition more likely to offend the ancient mind, whether Jew and Gentile. And the offense was somehow made worse by the idea that there was some necessity to Jesus dying in this way, and that salvation was to be found by valuing what He was claimed to be accomplishing on a cross of all things. This was to pile offense on offense. And the early Christians knew it (see 1 Cor 1:23).

And yet, time changes things. Holland plots how it took about 400 years before the cross began to appear in art. And over the centuries, rather than something to be appalled at, it became something to be contemplated, even admired. Emotions of revulsion, moved through compassion to even attraction. I well remember visiting Kelvingrove Art Gallery in Glasgow, where Dali’s “Christ of Saint John of the Cross” hangs; according The Guardian’s art critic “probably the most enduring vision of the crucifixion painted in the 20^th century”. No blood, no gore, no pain and definitely no offense.

But we lose something important when we lose that original sense of offense. It alerts us to something. It alerts us to an offended God, whose justice and holiness demand a response, a reckoning, for the outrage of creaturely rebellion. How is the scale of such offense to be communicated? How is its magnitude to be answered? God’s answer to both is the cross. But there is a sort of counter-offense in the idea that I need the cross. What has it got to do with me? How dare I be accused of rebellion, and have some demand placed upon me. And for that demand to involve my personal response to, or dependence upon, a man dying on a cross? Again, offense upon offense. It all sounds as crazy now, as it did in the first century. And it should strike us as offensive.

But my natural protestations spring from the great lie that Paul talks about it in Romans (1:25). The real offense is God’s not mine, and the answer to it has to be His too. Such great offense required a response greater than any that humanity individually or collectively was capable of. So the answer is found within the Godhead, and the Father requires a price of the Son, who is glad to return it to the Father. And it is returned by way of His death on a cross. There is a compelling logic to all of this that some continue to find offensive. Nietzsche, of all people, summed it up as “the horrific paradox of the ‘crucified God’”. But Spurgeon was clear that “..true ministry should be, and must be — a holding forth of the Cross of Christ to the multitude as the only trust of sinners. Jesus Christ must be set forth evidently crucified among them.”

Religious offense of one sort or another is often in the news. But if there’s one religious group that really has no place to protest about offense it’s Christians. Because right at the heart of Easter is the most offensive event to occur in history. That is rather the point.

Life in the pandemic XXII: Easter Reflections - Singing in the darkness..

Last year at Easter we were just getting used to lockdown – working from home, one hour’s exercise a day and the rest. It made for an interesting Good Friday reflection on self-isolation. It’s sobering to think that was “Life in the pandemic III” – this is XXII!. There was lot’s we didn’t know then, that we do know now. And yet big questions remain unanswered. Perhaps they are not the same big questions for everyone, although there is likely to be an overlap. We would all like to know things like where the virus came from, how it crossed into the human population, and whether the right things were done at the appropriate time to prevent its spread (although the answer to the last of these seems clear enough). In the meantime, we’ve done what we had to do. Lockdowns, shielding, masks and of course vaccines. We’ve been right to do all we can to protect ourselves, our families and our communities. But at least for me there is that deeper, somewhat nagging question as to what the pandemic “means”. One year on from arguing that such a question is legitimate, I confess that I still have no definitive answer.

Some would argue that this is because such a question is misconceived. That was essentially N.T. Wright’s take on the situation from an avowedly Christian (if probably provocative) perspective. Others might argue that because there’s no one to address such a question of meaning or purpose to, there’s no point posing it at all. If there can be no answer, then there can be no question. And yet it still lurks. And it has struck me throughout the pandemic that even among Christians there has been relatively little discussion of the pandemic’s meaning. Perhaps no one wants to be seen to exploiting a catastrophe and tragedy for polemical purposes. Certainly, I accept that the tone of any such discussion is important. So much suffering should not be met with flip or glib statements that gloss over complexities. Even if legitimate answers can be given, it’s important they’re not given in a hubristic, superior, “told you so” tone. My view, for what it’s worth, remains that there is meaning to be found in these dark months. As answers go, it may not be particularly comforting, and it will still leave lots of subsidiary answers to be ferreted out. But answer, and meaning, there is.

Before coming to what it is, it should be noted that Wright had a wider point to make in his article that is worth pondering. For while he thought looking for the “big” answer to the “big” question, looking for an explanation, was folly, there was a distinctive Christian response to the pandemic. Particularly in the midst of global disaster, surrounded by uncertainty and fear, there is a key response and resource available to the believer. It is found in the concept and practice of lament. Lament is in part an articulation of the confusion and pain we are suffering individually and collectively. Even if at the moment we feel that things are improving with the vaccine roll-out and easing of restrictions, many continue to struggle with long-COVID, and grieving continues for the 120 000 plus who have lost their lives. So there’s lots to lament about. And lament may have undertones of complaint and anger. But it’s more than that. All of us cry, and all of us can complain. But for the Christian who relies on the Living God who is sovereign and loving, there is something else that is the a feature of lament – an active choosing to trust.

By some accounts about a third of the Psalms in the Old Testament are laments. And there is a whole OT book that is a lament, called (not surprisingly) Lamentations. It is no accident that many of the Psalms of lament, almost regardless of where they begin, end with an affirmation of hope in, or praise for, the God to whom they are directed. It is also no accident that right in the middle of Lamentations, in the middle of the third chapter of a five chapter book, the writer tells us that he has hope, and why he has hope (Lam 3:22-27). What he says is neither glib nor vague. His hope is grounded, precise and active. “The Lord is my portion…therefore I will hope in Him” (Lam 3:24). It's not that his questions have been answered now. But he also tells us that even in the midst of confusion, and questions, and pain “It is good that one should wait quietly for the salvation of the Lord” (Lam 3: 26).

Jesus was no stranger to the laments. And of course, we remember that in the midst of the darkness (figurative and literal) of the cross, he took on His lips those words of lament from Psalm 22 “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”. There’s a question. It must have hung heavily in the air, apparently unanswered. But Peter tells us that Jesus “..continued entrusting Himself to Him who judges justly” (1 Pet 2:23). Trusting, even in the absence of an answer.

I take Wright’s point. Part of our response to the pandemic is not to forget the suffering of the last year, but to lament, to sing even in the darkness. That said I think, as with the cross, so with the pandemic. There is meaning and there is an answer to the big question. Both involve a curse. The pandemic is a reminder that this is a cursed world, despite our best efforts to insulate ourselves from said curse. Because it is cursed, although there are flashes of beauty, grace, happiness and peace to be found, these tend to be fleeting. But it will not always be so. There will be a reckoning and there needs to be rescue. And that’s why we sing in the darkness of “Good” Friday. Jesus, by taking that very curse on Himself, provides the basis for our rescue. And He laments, so that one day we won’t have to. We will hear an echo, a hint, of the new song that one day will replace all of our laments, when the darkness is displaced by the sunrise. We sing in the darkness of Friday. But Sunday’s coming.  

Life in the pandemic XXI: Back to the future......

Back in September last year I asserted that no-one could predict the future, at least with any certainty or precision. This was at the time when there was lot’s of debate about scientific modelling that was showing new waves of COVID19 cases, with their attendant increases in hospitalisations and deaths. As we come towards the end of another UK lockdown, the models and the predictions flowing from them seem to be a lot less controversial than they were. The prediction that kicked off much of the controversy (500 000 UK deaths if nothing was done) doesn’t seem quite so unbelievable now, given that, even with the heroic efforts of so many, about 126 000 lives have been lost in the UK to the virus. The modelling did its job, informing (although some would still claim misinforming) decisions. But I also alluded to another source of information, providing an important perspective on our future. It’s this I want to return to.

I do so with a degree of trepidation. Despite the occasional claim to the contrary, prediction about really complicated things like society (and much else besides) is a mugs game, and always has been. History is littered with bold and completely unfulfilled predictions. Never mind duff predictions from remote history. Remember Francis Fukuyama’s declarations about the end of history and the triumph of Western liberal democracy in the early 1990s? Trouble is nobody told the new autocrats like Putin, Xi and Erdogan, or for that matter Trump supporters (who can still be found in depressingly large numbers all over the US). On a lighter note, you won’t be surprised to learn that the Star Trek franchise is an even worse guide to the future. Given that the “Eugenics Wars” should have happened in the 1990s (about thirty years after the making of the original series), I’m afraid we can have no confidence that first contact with the Vulcans and the first warp flight will take place only 42 years hence.

Christians also have a bad (and probably deserved) reputation for the same kind of thing, although we arguably have fewer excuses. As to our individual and collective future we should be comfortable entrusting ourselves to the God who knows the future, regardless of whether He provides us with the details or not. And my suspicion is that often He has not, and does not, because it would distort both our perspective and our priorities. There is perhaps a hint of this at the end of John’s Gospel. Jesus has just restored Peter (after Peter’s denial of Him before the crucifixion), and in conversation He then alludes to what will happen to Peter in the future. Peter then asks about John who is nearby, to be told (essentially) to mind his own beeswax – although that’s not a literal translation of the original (see John 21:21,22). Although Jesus could have gone into great detail about both Peter and John’s futures, He’s fairly cryptic about Peter’s, and doesn’t give away anything about John’s.

There is one particular event the precise timing of which Jesus is famously tight-lipped about – the time of His own second advent. Indeed, He goes much further than simply not saying when it will take place. While it might be possible to detect a trajectory towards His return in the shape of events, He says clearly “..concerning the day and hour no one knows” (Matt24:36). The problem was even the Apostles (as well as later Christian “leaders”) had a habit of not hearing what was being said to them. So just before His ascension they enquired about the timing of events, only to be told, as Peter had been told individually, that it was none of their beeswax (again, not a literal translation; Acts 1:7). They had other business to be about. So, of all the things that Christians might be expected to discuss, write about, seek to discern and fall out about, one thing we should not be exercised about is the precise time of His return. However, some of us still aren’t listening.

Perhaps the best known example of Jesus’ own words being ignored in this matter is that of the Millerites, the predecessors of the Seventh Day Adventists (although some would dispute this characterisation). From about 1818 onwards, William Miller prophesied that the world would end and Christ would return “around” 1843. By the 1840’s there were those within the movement prepared to get more precise. As the world staggered into 1844, and then through the early months of 1844, some in the movement, rather than draw the obvious conclusion, sharpened the prediction to 22^nd October 22^nd, 1844. Eventually Miller himself endorsed this date, and the rest, as they say is history. Miller, it turns out, was not an aberration.

Herbert Armstrong was a 1930’s equivalent of the modern TV Evangelist (ie a radio evangelist), who managed to accumulate many of the trappings of his modern successors with whom he overlapped (he died in 1986). Various sources report him predicting Christ’s return in 1936, 1943, the “end of the world war”, 1972 and 1975.  Harold Camping was another serial offender and radio evangelist, who is best known for his prediction that the rapture would occur on 21^st May 2011. To be fair, in 2012 he wrote: "We humbly acknowledge we were wrong about the timing." He died at the age of 92 in 2013. More recently still we had David Mead’s prediction of the end of the world on September 3^rd, 2017.  You could easily add to this list from those who manage to keep just on the right side of Christian orthodoxy otherwise, to others who are either way over the line, or aren’t interested in any line at all.

History has demonstrated that none of these predictions were made by prophets, because the main qualification of a prophet is that they get it right (Deut 18:22)! And of course all of this is a dangerous distraction from two things that should occupy us. Jesus first advent was long prophesied, and probably just as long doubted, until it was largely forgotten about. When he came, it came as a shock. And His arrival was just the beginning. His exit (that we are about to remember again over Easter) was, and is, also a shocker. Here are truths worth focussing on and thinking about. We have plenty to go on. But the truth is that having delivered on the promises of His first advent, at some point He will deliver on the promise of His second advent. I should not neglect the reality of His promised return; it should have a bearing on both my thinking and my behaviour, it should both encourage and motivate. However, rather than stare at the sky (metaphorically for us, literally for the Apostles), there’s important business to be about here and now. He’ll take care of the rest.

Ignoring my own advice though, I do have one final prediction to make: somewhere, someone is factoring the pandemic into their calculations. Look out for an announcement sometime soon. See what I did there?

Life in the pandemic XX: It feels a bit like 1517….

As well as enjoying box-sets of the West Wing, I spend quite a lot of my time reading history. It was my best subject at school, and I would have taken it further. But in my school bright kids applied to do other stuff at University, so I stumbled into science. However, I was never cured of the history bug. You won’t be too surprised to learn therefore that I’m reading some history at the moment - Alistair McGrath’s “Reformation Thought”.

Over the years I’ve read various accounts of the events, personalities, thinking, politics and impacts of the sixteenth century, famously starting with Luther’s posting of his 95 theses on the door of the Castle Church in Wittenberg, on the 31st October 1517. Of course, as McGrath point outs, this didn’t happen because Luther woke up that particular morning and on a whim decided that this would be a wizard wheeze. It may have been a discrete event (and not everyone is agreed that it occurred where and when it is said to) but it wasn’t just a discrete event. Many things preceded it, some of which had impacted on Luther himself, and there were many other things influencing him indirectly. All of this undoubtedly shaped his thinking and actions; this is the nature of things. And what followed, what is now termed “the Reformation”, did not then unfold in a vacuum either. There was a lot going on beside and around the theological outrage of one particular German monk, and a lot that then flowed out from his actions. All of this rich tapestry is what we call providence. But we like to identify points in time and places in space, and for the start of the Reformation a Wittenberg church door in 1517 will do. But the before and after turns out, at least to my mind, to be really interesting.

As to before, one wonders how Biblical Christianity survived given the state of the institutional church at the beginning of the sixteenth century. Philosophy was in fine fettle, with rise of humanism in the universities of the day, and renewed interest in the ideas of antiquity, perhaps reaching a high point in the person of Erasmus. Art, including of course church art, was flourishing; this after all was the age of Leonardo. Literacy rates were low, but were climbing, perhaps reaching around 10% by 1500; this doesn’t sound like a lot but it would have an important bearing on the spread and development of reformation ideas. Under the surface, one big change was the arrival and evolution of printing in Western Europe from the East. But the Church in Western Europe was mired in corruption and confusion, and arguably had been for centuries. Somewhere, no doubt, what we might call a Gospel remnant remained; this was certainly Broadbent’s contention, and is the thrust of his famous book (“The Pilgrim Church”). However, this was not at all obvious, at least to mainstream, documented history. In general, the knowledge of what was, and what was not, Bible truth must have been fairly limited, at least as limited as access to Bibles. At this point in history there were no vernacular translations, and the Vulgate, which was available in monasteries and universities, partly made the problem worse by being a relatively poor translation from the original Bible languages into Latin. It also confused the canonical books of the Bible with the (non-canonical) apocrypha (although this was and is a matter of contention). Mind you, as what happened afterwards rather demonstrates, none of this was a particular problem for the God who weaves the tapestry of human events.

The 21^st century seems to be very different from the 16^th. And in so many ways it is. An easy parallel could be drawn between the COVID19 pandemic, and the outbreaks of plague which still occasionally occurred in the time of the reformers. But the plague devastated in ways scarcely conceivable in the modern world. Two years after Luther pinned up his theses, the plague struck the Swiss town of Zurich, where Zwingli, one of the other early reformers, was at work. Between a quarter and third of the population were wiped out, and Zwingli was nearly among their number. Bad as COVID is, it is nowhere near this deadly. However, if in the midst of our pandemic, you had begun to wonder if there was more to life, and wanted to find out what the Scriptures (ie the 66 books of the Bible) had to say on the topic, you’d be spoilt for choice. Even in lockdown, you’d be able to download to a device of your choice the very words of God, from sites like Bible Hub and Bible Gateway and many others beside. Our problem is manifestly not, as in the early 16^th century, the unavailability of the Word of God in our own language. It is freely available. Many of us have a copy somewhere in our homes, some of us have multiple copies, in multiple versions. Yet, paradoxically, although the Bible is widely available, confusion and ignorance about what is taught and revealed in its pages abound. Confusion and ignorance, I would suggest, on a par with 1517. And not only in society, “out there”.

Recent statistics have highlighted utter confusion about what is taught in the Bible, even among those who self-identify with labels like “practicing Christian” and “evangelical”. According to the “State of Theology” survey, in 2018 71% of self-identified UK Christians (74% of those identifying as evangelicals) agreed with the statement “Jesus is the first and greatest being created by God”. The 2020 figure for US evangelicals was 56%. What about the statement “The Holy Spirit is a force but is not a personal being”? What do you think? I think that Scripture is quite clear on this. But it is a point of contention between orthodox Christian belief and some of the cults and sects. So, your view as to the truth of this statement is neither trivial nor unimportant. It turns out that in the 2018 SoT survey, 69% of UK practicing Christians (55% of evangelicals) agreed with the statement. It is, of course, untrue. The Holy Spirit is a person, with the attributes of a person, and is the third person of the Trinity, standing in personal relationship with other persons (divine and otherwise). There is data on a whole series of other statements on the site that you can peruse at your leisure. Indeed you can take the survey yourself, and compare your own views with the US or UK populations, and various sub-populations.

Now I know one can quibble with the basis of any survey. One can question the wording of some the statements, and the coverage of various topics. This particular survey is done online, and therefore one could also quibble with the nature of the underlying samples. But demoting two out of three persons of the Trinity strikes me as indicating pretty serious confusion. Even amongst church going folk, even those who are attending churches where Scripture is being taught (or is claimed to be taught) confusion and ignorance of what the Bible actually teaches apparently abounds, a bit like the early 16^th Century. But the reason is clearly not because the unavailability of the Bible in the vernacular.

Clarity about what the Bible teaches is both possible and desirable. Answers are to be had. They reside in that Bible which is, mercifully, freely available to us (at least at the moment). But it is apparently a closed book many of us. Mind you, what is apparent is rarely the whole story. One wonders how this part of the tapestry will look when it is complete.