The tyranny of the present…..

Although time can be used as an accusation (as in “you’re living in the past”), we appear to be suffering from a different problem at the moment. The Time’s columnist Jenni Russell picked up on this recently in a piece entitled “Ignorance of history feeds certainty in young”, with the subtitle: “The belief that everyone in the past was wicked and today’s digital generation is uniquely virtuous ignores the truth” (The Times 4/3/23 – but it’s behind a paywall). Part of her beef was with historical ignorance, and with the education policy of governments that have tended to encourage it. What had alerted her to this problem was younger friends who were surprised when they were told that idealism, sacrifice and good motives were neither invented or discovered recently, but could also be found in the past. Their view was that in the past everyone was wicked and everything cruel and exploitative. Virtue belonged to the present generation and to it alone, and so it fell to them uniquely to sort out all the mess they had been bequeathed. This is apparently a close relative of the view that we are on a progressive trajectory. The values of the past are in the past and therefore wrong; we have moved on to a better place, and there had better be no going back. If the first set of views depends on an ignorance of history, the second are peculiarly a-historical as though values come from nowhere in time.

C.S. Lewis called out this kind of thinking. He called it “chronological snobbery” which he defined as “..the uncritical acceptance of the intellectual climate common to our own age and the assumption that whatever has gone out of date is on that account discredited.” This happens for a whole heap of reasons, some sensible, some less so. It is true that in some ways we know more than previous generations. Thanks to the efforts of my former colleagues among others, we have been forging ahead discovering the intricacies of the inner workings of every cell in our bodies. Whole new fields of endeavour have opened up because of novel, and very often unanticipated findings. Now we not only know about genes, but almost by accident we have discovered how to “edit” them. This offers new ways to tackle disease and improve health as well as providing a powerful new tool for research. Only a century ago, arguments about the inner structure of the atom were yet to give way to the idea of nuclear fission as a  means of energy generation and, unfortunately, a new type of terrifying weapon. Now we have both. What is interesting about these examples is that they illustrate that while the accumulation of knowledge is progress, there are other ways in which we have not moved on. Because both in the case of gene editing and nuclear weapons knowing what can be done has not helped us know what should be done. Indeed, in important ways it may have left us worse off than we were before.

There is another dimension to the hold the present has on us and in the opposite direction. Life is not static because it never arrives at a perfect equilibrium position. Does anyone seriously contend that where we are now is where we want to remain? It may be that there is no clear consensus on where we want to go, but going we are. And yet the present has such a strong pull that is is difficult to imagine anything different let alone anything better. One reason Lewis had a problem with chronological snobbery was that “...our own age is also “a period” and certainly has, like all periods, its own characteristic illusions.” The problem is that without careful thought we might assume that we don’t have such illusions, and we certainly wont know what they are. Funnily enough this may be something the past can help us with. For it may be able to illuminate our illusions given that they are different to those of the past.

If we really are on a journey or a trajectory, the present has the power to obscure the destination or target to which we are heading. This may suit some for whom the present may be an appropriate target. From their perspective after perhaps years or decades of struggle they may feel that they have somehow arrived. They have a position to defend. And yet such a defence must be mounted with regret. After all, who is going to claim that their present world is perfect? More worryingly, maybe for others it’s the fight rather than the victory, the journey rather that the arrival. In which case the present is presumably still their unhappy place. Either way, the present is exercising its pull, its tyranny, even at the cost of the future.

But what if the whole thing was illusory? I mean the idea of progress from a purely barbaric past, with the present as some sort of ideal? For there are ways in which we don’t appear to have improved much at all. Admittedly we no longer leave unwanted babies to die on hillsides (one feature of various periods in classical antiquity) and yet we do tolerate the unborn being chemically, biologically or even surgically destroyed on an almost industrial scale. And for all of our technological progress, we still can’t collectively do as we ought even when we can see what we should and even when we know how to do what we should. Perhaps the current best example is climate change. The science has been clear for decades. And the scientific consensus, notwithstanding the lobbying of various monied concerns, has stood for almost as long. What were predictions about the future are increasing our current disastrous present. Yet for the sake of the present, we have been prepared to continue to risk the future. So we’re stuck between the past (of which we are increasingly happy to be ignorant) and the future. It’s almost as though we can’t help ourselves.

In fact it’s exactly that we can’t help ourselves. Just as well rescue is available. A rescue, procured in the past, able to deal with our dilemmas in the present, and to secure the future. Rescue found in “..the Lord Jesus Christ, who gave Himself for our sins so that He might rescue us from this present evil age, according to the will of our God and Father” (Galatians 1:3,4; NIV).

As I’m a theology student…….

In my former life, conferences played an important role. Far from being mere “jollies”, they provided key opportunities to both hear and share the latest ideas and to network with the community. There were always issues big and small to be aware of. There might be specific new insights or results of real relevance in my own immediate vicinity of the scientific universe. Or there might be big new themes or the re-emergence of old ones that would be context forming and therefore had to be noted. And because science is a team game, conferences provided a space for personal interaction. As the pandemic raged and conferences (if they occurred at all) moved online, it was suggested that this would become the standard going forward. For the big international meetings it saved time and money (and it was good for the planet). But something was lost without the personal face-to-face encounters across continents that conferences provided. So post-pandemic they’ve come roaring back.

But that was then and this is now. After about forty years, I am again a student and neophyte. So I thought I should probably go to the odd theology conference. I was at last year’s Newton House conference in Oxford. But that was a bit of a home fixture because of the association with Union where I am studying. So when I saw that Affinity (formerly the British Evangelical Council) was holding a “Theological Study Conference”, that seemed to fit the bill. I duly headed to Northampton last week for three days on the topic of “Priorities for the Rising Generation”. Here are some observations (in no particular order).

Conferences, particularly those that have been running for a while, are usually composed of regulars (the majority) and newbies. The Affinity conference takes place every two years, and didn’t run two years ago because of COVID. That meant that quite a high proportion of the attendees were newbies. This was probably to the benefit of many of us. That said, quite a lot of folk knew each other from other networks in which they served or to which they belonged. But right from the start there was what I would call friendliness+. I’ve always found that people at conferences are reasonably friendly. After all, no-one is forced to be there, and usually there is a sense of shared purpose. But what linked me to colleagues at the conferences I used to attend were external factors in the main. The Affinity conference had that, but (and this would apply to other gatherings of Christians) we were also linked internally. In additional to a series of outward characteristics and observable shared motivations, there was that instant family rapport and familiarity often experienced when Christians come together. There was an instant ease with each other.

There is another interesting aspect to this that some might find surprising. After all Christians, particularly evangelicals, often have a reputation for not getting on, and for falling out over what, to many non-Christians, seem like trivia. I have no doubt there were lots of issues that we could have found to disagree about, and some are not trivial. Folks had come together from a wide range of churches, committed to different forms of church government, believing different things about baptism, with different ways of celebrating the Lord’s Supper. And yet the genius of evangelicalism is that it has always been possible to distinguish between primary and secondary issues (with an admittedly fuzzy boundary between them). There are those things that are central in Scripture (those great Gospel truths like the identity, life, work, death and resurrection of Jesus, the character of God and man as revealed) and those which are more debatable leading to legitimate discussion and variation in practice among those who all accept the truth, authority and sufficiency of Scripture (how often to celebrate the Lord’s supper, what mode of baptism to practice, never mind the type of songs to sing in worship). What one ends up with is a unity without uniformity that is much closer than is often enjoyed by those nominally belonging to the same institution. There is a contrast here with what was on display at the recent General Synod of the Church of England, although this was but the latest outworking of tensions that have existed within that particular body from its sixteenth century beginnings. Despite debate over the label “evangelical” and its usefulness, there is some continuing value to it when it is properly defined and realised.

But back to the conference. Papers had been pre-circulated so they could be read and digested before we pitched up in Northampton (they will eventually be published in the Affinity journal "Foundations"). So at the conference itself they were only briefly summarised with the bulk of the time spent discussing them in groups. This provided an opportunity to get to grips with the material, but also to reflect collectively on it. I found myself in a group with a rare blend of wisdom and wit, experience and perspective. Most were experienced pastors and ministers with years of service between them in all sorts of settings. There were leaders of national organisations, and some with other experience and expertise (including a publisher and a former GP). This was one of the most enjoyable aspects of the conference for me. It was a pleasure to listen to them, and they (graciously) occasionally listened to the new boy. Sometimes the discussion did range rather far from the topics in question, and to that extent things were probably not quite as focussed and disciplined as at more academic conferences and some of those I attended in a previous life. But this was because the conference attendees were in large measure pastors not academics. It brought a warmth and practicality to the issues being discussed.

I’m sure that there are more academically rigorous conferences out there, and I may even get to go to few. But I’m glad I was able to spend this few days in the company of such brothers and sisters grappling with and reflecting on some serious and difficult issues for now and the future. 

Tolerance and the public square…

I confess I’m not really sure what is meant these days by “the public square”. There probably isn’t just one, and it probably isn’t a physical square in a particular spatial location. But wherever and whatever it is, there’s been a debate going on about who has access to it, and what they can legitimately do once they get there. This has been occasioned by the furore surrounding Kate Forbes who is currently one of the candidates in the Scottish National Party’s leadership contest (and therefore a candidate for First Minister in the Scottish Parliament). She is also a Christian and a member of the Free Church of Scotland. As I suspected, both of these have led to considerable confusion in the media. At one point last week things got so bad that Dr James Eglinton, an academic in the Faculty of Divinity in the University of Edinburgh and also a member of the Free Church of Scotland, was prompted to offer to proof-read journalists’ copy before they further embarrassed themselves. They were not the only ones to be confused.

Apparently, Mhairi Black (the SNP’s deputy leader at Westminster) couldn't care less about someone’s religion until, that is, it actually affects them in any way. For should it affect the way a politician might vote for or against something Ms Black is against or for, that is “intolerance”. One of Forbes’ opponents, Humza Yousaf (Black’s preferred candidate) helpfully opined that religious views were fine if the person holding them “...were able to disassociate their view, and not let that interfere with policymaking or legislating…”. This is presumably the approach Mr Yousaf, a Muslim, has been taking all these years. Partly in response to such statements, the Scottish Association of Mosques issued a statement about the debate: “The tone of the debate around religious beliefs …. is deeply concerning. Some of those beliefs in question, are beliefs that Muslims also share.” The implication is that the Christian in the race is closer to many Muslims in Scotland than the Muslim in the race. They went on to say that it was “..refreshing to hear a political leader [i.e. Forbes] talk about their religious values and principles, in an open and transparent way.” So Black is confused about tolerance, and Yousaf is confused about the teachings of Islam. Both think that religious belief is fine, provided it leads to no discernible action. Anything else is a form of intolerance.

I always assumed that politicians held beliefs that influenced them, otherwise of what value are those beliefs? Now some beliefs might not lead to outward action if they concern abstract concepts (e.g. my belief that a square has four corners). But this type of belief is deeply uninteresting. When added to other kinds of information, it might turn out to be useful, but it’s not the sort of thing that is going to set the heather alight. Many beliefs however, do shape action. My belief that an umbrella can keep the rain off of me means that I am likely to reach for one on a rainy day. If my experience of umbrella use turns out to be positive then I am likely to want to tell you about it so that you might benefit from their use. In sharing this information (which is intimately connected to my beliefs about umbrellas) I am not oppressing or insulting you, although I could obviously share it in an insulting way. If I felt strongly, I might go into politics and argue that there should be pro-umbrella legislation so that society in general could benefit from such an innovation. Why should this be in any way problematic? If it turns out you are not convinced and think that I am acting from impure motives (e.g. I own shares in an umbrella manufacturer) then this should certainly be exposed and factored into the public debate. But that’s what a democracy is; people with different views, in open debate. Beliefs, motives and facts all play a role in this and everyone is entitled to participate. Or so I thought.

It turns out that certain kinds of beliefs are now to be ruled a priori as having no place in public debate. Mhairi Black has certain beliefs, and I dare say she is confident she can justify them. But even justified beliefs are still beliefs. I’m sure they influence how she votes, the positions she takes in debates, and how she seeks to legislate for others. I have no idea what all of her beliefs are, but I suspect I don’t share many of them. But I’m happy that she has them and agitates for them. Some of Yousef’s beliefs are intimately connected to his experience as a Muslim in a culture where Islam is not the majority view. He has said that this aspect of his experience does influence his politics and his actions as a legislator. As has been pointed out in the twitter-sphere and occasionally in other media, he has not yet been quizzed on those aspects of Muslim belief that do not appear to neatly cohere with his politics. But both Black and Yousef claim that religious belief should play no role in politics and presumably no role in public discourse in general. Private good (or at least currently allowed), public bad.

I have no beef with them holding precisely this view (belief) and expressing it. But exactly why should I accept their authority to pronounce on which beliefs are and are not to be expressed publicly, which beliefs are and are not to be allowed to shape behaviour, debate and politics (if such a thing were possible)? At least we know from whence Forbes’ views flow and on what they are based. One might take a dim view of both a Christian’s beliefs and the Bible from which they are drawn. But to exclude them even from scrutiny, from even being presented in the public square, to assert that their defence and justification should not even be attempted, betokens breath-taking intolerance.

Tim Farron, a man who knows a thing or two about expressing Christian beliefs in a political context (to his cost) suggested a much healthier model in a radio interview recently: “The fact is, there is no neutral space in the public square and a genuinely liberal society is one where we bump up against each other respectfully and are helpfully healthily curious about why people think things that are different.” 

That's a public square I'd happily take a stroll in any day.

A “Kennedy moment” in Scotland

I was on a train from Glasgow to Edinburgh last Wednesday, and had just logged on to the in-train Wi-Fi, when the news broke. Nicola Sturgeon, First Minister in the Scottish parliament, and leader of the Scottish National Party, had resigned. For one reason and another there will be few Scots for whom this did not constitute a “Kennedy moment”. An older generation will find it hard to understand that I now have to explain for the younger generation what this is. John F. Kennedy was both the US president and a towering and era-defining political figure. He was assassinated on 22^nd November, 1963. This event was so shocking that it became a memory anchor for a whole generation (or two). People would discus where they were and what they were doing when they heard that Kennedy had been shot. Now, it is true that, to slightly misquote a famous vice-presidential debate, Nicola Sturgeon “is no Jack Kennedy”. But in the relatively small world of Scottish politics, and more widely in the UK, she has been a major presence for more than twenty years.

It isn't hard to find reviews of her political career from friends and foes alike. Love her or loath her, all are agreed that she was (is?) a formidable political operator. Most are also agreed that she was head and shoulders above most of her Scottish opponents and more than a few of her UK ones (she has seen off Conservative UK Prime Ministers almost beyond counting). She has been a dominant figure in Scotland, particularity since she took over from Alex Salmond, her former mentor, after the independence/separation referendum was lost (from her point of view) in 2014. Her whole purpose in politics was to break up the political union that is the United Kingdom, and see Scotland take its place as an independent and sovereign state, one of the family of European nations. Unfortunately a solid majority of her fellow Scots did not agree, and voted 55% to 45% in favour of the status quo. But this of course was merely a temporary setback. Salmond resigned, Sturgeon took over, and began agitating. With Brexit, she saw an opportunity. This she claimed was a material change in circumstances and fundamental alteration in what the opponents of independence had been offering the Scottish people back in 2014. Indeed, when the Brexit vote was broken down by UK nation, Scotland had “voted” against leaving the European Union. This quietly ignores the issue that Scotland, as Scotland, wasn't being asked; it was a UK-wide vote. Just as both Glasgow and Edinburgh were both bound by the outcome of IndyRef1 although they voted differently, so Scotland was bound by the outcome of the Brexit referendum.

In truth it made little difference. Some pretext would have been found, some excuse advanced, as to why the agreed position in 2014, that IndyRef1 was a once-in-a-generation opportunity, wasn't. What few in England seem to have ever grasped is that this single aim was Sturgeon's (and is the SNP's) over-riding aim. Given the name and aim of her political party this is an elementary error. Over-riding means exactly that. To the SNP Independence is more important than educational performance, NHS budgets, drug deaths and tax policy, all of which are highly contentious in Scotland. And this is not only the case because independence is seen as a means to an end i.e. that all of these other problems will be more fixable in an independent Scotland. Even if Scotland were to be demonstrably poorer on its own, this would not matter to a true tartan nationalist. Theirs is a principled position, not a means to and end. Independence is what truly matters and everything else is secondary. Post-Brexit, this should not be that hard to understand in the rest of the UK. A lot of folk voted to leave the EU in the full knowledge that they would be worse off. They were told often enough that this would be one of the outcomes. And so it has transpired.

At the centre of all of this was wee Nicola. But no more. Out of a bright, blueish, Edinburgh sky, came the announcement on Wednesday that she was resigning. And so I shall ever remember that I was pulling out of Easterhouse station on my way to Edinburgh Waverley. But as with trains, life moves on. US politics motored along after JFK's assassination, and political life in Scotland and the UK will do too. And Nicola Sturgeon's true significance will be assessed and reassessed as time, like a train, rolls along. Inevitably, attention has now turned to who will replace her, and what this mean for both Scottish and constitutional politics.

So far, one name seems to be at, or near, the top of the pundits' lists: that of Kate Forbes. Ms Forbes is the Cabinet Secretary for Finance and the Economy in the SNP government, and is currently on maternity leave. Kate Forbes is a Christian, and this is clearly seen as a problem by at least some of the commentariat. Some, probably out of ignorance, reach for stereotypes. My suspicion is that few of the political team on the Times know the difference between, say, the Free Church of Scotland and the Free Presbyterian Church of Scotland, they are both “free” and “presbyterian” after all. But differences there are. For the record Forbes is a member of the Free Church. This, in the view of one of the scribblers at the Times is sufficient to qualify her as a “strict Christian” who belongs to “an austere Christian denomination” (the Times, 18/2/23, p9!). Others see trouble ahead particularly given that currently the SNP in Edinburgh are in cahoots with the Scottish Greens.

Forbes was spared any involvement in the Gender Recognition Reform Bill debates at Holyrood by virtue of her maternity leave. But differences with her party activists over this, abortion and homosexuality (if they exist) have all been highlighted as potential flashpoints. While at Westminster such issues are treated as matters of conscience and are rarely (if ever) whipped, the same is not true in Edinburgh. Only the Conservatives allowed their members a free vote on GRR. There are echoes here of the difficulties Tim Farron got into in the 2017 general election campaign (which I discussed at the time here). He found that he could not both lead a UK political party, and live as a faithful Christian because of the tensions between his Christian beliefs and some of his party's policies which he had to represent. He has also been admirably candid that this was largely because in publicly answering a number of key questions, he had been unwise in his approach. There are undoubtedly some in the media who are already dusting down some of the very same questions to put to Kate Forbes should she stand to be leader of her party and First Minister of Scotland. Such interactions, if and when they come, will tell us more about media, culture and society, than they will reveal anything about Kate Forbes and Christianity. 

Interesting times ahead then. But some of us will always remember where we were on the afternoon of Wednesday 15th February, 2023.

Remembering not to forget

Last night, at the close of Holocaust Memorial Day in the UK, I watched the film “Denial” again – it’s currently available on the BBC I-Player (which, unfortunately, is only available in the UK). It tells the story of the London deformation trial of Deborah Lipstadt, an historian, who defended a claim brought against her by a Holocaust denier. Some of the most moving scenes are when she visits Auschwitz, along with her senior and junior counsel, and some experts on the events that unfolded there. One of the experts suggests they walk the perimeter to get an idea of the scale of the place. Her senior council says he has already done that, and so they proceed to part of the complex where Jews were first undressed, and then led into gas chambers, passing pacifying signs saying they were on their way to the baths. Scale is an interesting idea in this context. What word is appropriate? Immense? Industrial? The physical and numerical dimensions of what was done, as horrific as they are, do not come close to encapsulating the events of the Holocaust. For while they reflect the evil intent of what occurred, and are the most accessible aspect of that intent, they do not come close to capturing the true ferocity of the hatred that was vented on ordinary and innocent men and women, boys and girls, the majority of whom were distinguished by one thing and one thing only – they were Jews.  

Others are much more qualified than me to attempt an explanation of that hatred. That there was an implacable, intense and fundamentally irrational hatred burning in the hearts of some of the perpetrators of the Holocaust is undeniable. Much ink has also been spilt on the mass complicity that was required to achieve their evil ends; the blind eyes and numbed hearts (and not all of them in Nazi Germany) that helped, or at least did not hinder, the venting of that hatred. That it grew from poisonous but relatively small beginnings, that it involved the crossing of many lines from the subtle to the gross, seems believable. Where it all ended up, in mass, organized, documented, industrial, attempted genocide, seems barely believable. That’s why it is important that we do not forget, that we do not let the events of the Holocaust become some kind of fantastic myth. There are those who would like it to be regarded in that way. In addition to being monumentally unjust, this would be madness, perhaps a madness that could lead to its repetition. There have, after all, been attempts to follow the same playbook.

It is a playbook that involves the “othering” of a minority. It is always easy to blame someone else for personal or societal ills. Having identified one group or another as a scapegoat, by caricature and innuendo they are made to be somehow less. First of all less than “us”; ultimately less than human. That makes their persecution all the easier and less troubling. This all has to be done in the abstract of course. It helps if “they” don’t really look like “us”. This is usually tricky because, when it comes down to it, we all look pretty similar. Hence the need for caricature, some of which goes beyond superficial differences like skin tone or facial appearance. But even although certain features or claimed attitudes and behaviors might be emphasized, it’s the depersonalized idea that is highlighted, rather than real individuals. It helps if the group in question can be segregated, lest “we” actually get to know some of “them”, for then the barriers might break down before they can be built up.  All of this takes effort. The tragedy is that humanity seems willing from time to time to make such an effort.

But for much of history it seems, Jewish people have been a particular target of such efforts. And there is no avoiding the fact that in my corner of the world those called “Christians” have occasionally been at the forefront of such efforts. While being called a Christian and actually being a Christian are two quite distinct things, it’s the irony that is so much starker than the distinction. You cannot begin to understand what a Christian is, even what the word entails, without an understanding and respect for the Jews and their history. A Christian is a Christ follower, and Christ is not a name, it’s a title. It’s simply the Greek way of saying Messiah, God’s servant promised in the Old Testament to His people the Jews. It is true that what divides Jews and Christians is a disagreement over the identity of the Messiah. But the debt that any nominal or actual Christian owes the Jews, and the obligations that flow from it, is incalculable.

Consider. It goes without saying that, notwithstanding centuries of European art, Jesus was a Jew, as were the twelve Apostles (thirteen, including Paul). It’s a profoundly odd view that says this is all just historically contingent and accidental detail. This was God’s choosing and doing, and is therefore significant. The New Testament story of the Church, post the pivotal events of Pentecost (itself a Jewish feast not a Christian invention) begins with Jews, who initially made up the overwhelming majority of Christians at the beginning. As Jews, they saw their new-found Christian faith a fulfillment of, rather than a repudiation of, what their Old Testament (simply “the Scriptures” to them) taught, and had taught them to expect. Indeed this belief was firmly based on what Jesus Himself had taught them; He had taken two of them to task for not taking their Scriptures seriously enough (you’ll find the story in Luke 24:13-35). Even when a parting of the ways came, with some elements of organized Judaism opposing the growing Gentile church, Paul reminds particularly Gentile Christians that they have been ingrafted into “the nourishing root of the olive tree” (Romans 11:17) and not to be arrogant or proud where God’s ancient people were concerned. Paul had a burning and intense desire that his own people might come to recognize Jesus for who He was, and that there might be no division between Jew and Gentile.

In early Church history there were those who sought to divorce Christianity from its Jewish roots, notably Maricon and his followers. But they were quickly identified as not teaching Christianity at all. There is also still a popular idea that the Bible somehow teaches two Gods opposed to, or at least different to, each other: the Old Testament nasty God, and the New Testament fluffy one. But this can only be maintained by not reading and taking seriously what the Bible, Old and New Testaments actually teaches. For my own part, I do feel debt to those Old Testament saints, the likes of Abraham, Moses, Samuel, David, Elijah, Nehemiah, Malachi, and many more beside. And not as just figures from someone else’s ancient history. They tell me about me, and us about us. Without wanting to be proprietorial about it, I do feel that I belong to them and they belong to me, and that we all belong to Christ. That even today some of their human descendants should be identified and abused for simply that reason (i.e. that they are Jews) is both appalling and revealing. We dare not forget where it can lead.

Starting in weakness…..

There is something arbitrary about identifying 1^st January every year as holding some significance, and yet we do (at least in this part of the world). It is not as though between 31^st December and the 1^st January there is a change of season. It’s not the winter solstice (the day with the shortest period of daylight, after which day length increases again); that was on the 21^st December. Yet every year the transition between the 31^st December and 1^st January induces reviews of the previous twelve months, predictions for the next twelve, and even manages to induce, in at least some of us, an incoherent and usually unwarranted optimism about what is to come. Not this year.

I started 2023 off with a dose of the ‘flu (the real thing, not the ‘man’ variety). It commenced on New Year’s day, and I went rapidly downhill from there. I’m assuming that if I had not had my ‘flu shot back in the autumn my experience would have been a lot worse. But it was bad enough. It is said that if you feel like you’re dying you have a cold; if you don’t care if you’re dying, it’s the ‘flu. So, instead of long forest or beach walks to clear the mind of Christmas fug, I spent the first week of the year unable to do much of anything, much of it in my bed, and I spent the second week recovering. And when I have the ‘flu it also always messes with my head. Admittedly I didn’t have any serious near-psychotic episodes this time, but there were weird dreams and the occasional loss of place and person. It was all very odd indeed. Bounce into the New Year I did not.

All in all it was a reminder of my frailty and fragility. After all I had been floored by what for someone of my age and generally good health was a fairly minor viral infection. However, as the pandemic reminded us all, frailty and fragility is part and parcel of our human lot. Perhaps partly as a coping mechanism, many of us avoid the reality of just how frail as human beings we are. The reason the pandemic was such a shock to many of us was that, initially there was nothing that could be done. We all had to stay home and hope we didn’t get the bug. And if we did get it, we had to hope it wouldn’t be too bad.  And of course for many it wasn’t. And yet intensive care units filled with people who couldn’t breathe, many of whom did not survive. I was scary. How quickly we forget and move on.

But there is value in starting the year off with a reminder of one’s fragility and indeed mortality. I admit this is partly a function of age. When I was twenty I doubt that even a bad dose of the ‘flu would have had much of an impact. There was lots of time to recover and move on, and no need to worry about anything as serious as death. But it is worth bearing in mind that it is only relatively recently that life expectancy has been long enough, and general healthcare good enough, for us to fool ourselves about mortality. Current male life expectancy in the UK is just over 80 years. Given this, my suspicion is that most of us probably spend about the first fifty years of our lives convinced implicitly that  we are invincible and immortal, even although we know that we really are not. But there are lots of things to engage with and to keep us busy and distracted. Any younger person whose mind takes a more sober turn is likely to branded morbid. But then one reaches a certain stage in life where contemplating one’s demise in this life becomes much easier. There is a realization that, all other things being equal, one is nearer one’s death than one’s birth (something I wrote about last January).

All of this would be depressing were it not for the fact that there is a bigger picture. As important as life in the here and now is, if I really thought that this was all there is, I’m not sure it would be enough. If I really thought that from this point all that faced me was an increasing propensity to succumb to disease or injury, until my resources (plus those of various health professionals) were exhausted and I was unable to make a recovery, what really would be the point? So it’s just as well that my conviction is that there really is a bigger picture. Our very weakness and fragility is a sign, a reminder, that we are created creatures, and our needs are no accident. The tragedy of Western individualism is that it has misdirected us, telling us that each of us is all that we need, when this is clearly not the case. To deny my creatureliness and my createdness is to deny that I have a Creator, and also to deny myself the resources that He has provided. Importantly, my Creator is not the remote watchmaker-type creator of the Deist, but a Creator who is self-described as Father. Henry Lyte captures the reality well in his famous hymn. As well as writing “Frail as summer’s flower we flourish; blows the wind and it is gone; but while mortals rise and perish, God endures unchanging on”  he writes: “Father-like he tends and spares us, well our human frame he knows”. My reality (and I would suggest yours too) is that I am dependent on Him and created to know Him.

The here and now matters; this physical life now is important. If the incarnation of the second person of the Trinity tells us anything, it is that there is value to these lives lived now in weakness, frailty and dependence. Jesus Himself lived a life like this (and paradoxically a life completely unlike it in other ways). The value of these lives lies partly in what we learn about how things really are, and what we really are or ought to be. To deny all of this is of course a common strategy that has been adopted by humanity from almost the beginning of everything. But such a denial never ends well. Reality has a way of asserting itself eventually and inescapably. So to begin a year by being reminded reality is no bad thing. To be reminded of my real physical and spiritual dependence on my Creator and Father, and to be reminded of His gracious provision of all that I need will keep my focus on exactly where it should be. 

It’s Christmas on Sunday…….

You wouldn’t think it was that big a deal that December 25^th happens to be a Sunday. And for most of the planet’s 8 billion inhabitants it probably isn’t. Many will neither recognize or celebrate Christmas regardless of when it falls, including those with no Christian interest or history, and those who as a matter of their atheistic principles will not want to have anything to do with it (and quite right too). After all, the (nominal) Christian world only makes up about 30% of the world’s total population. Within that 30% one might reasonably expect that Christmas falling on a Sunday would not lead to any dramas. However it turns out that there has been a bit of a tiz going on. Apparently, because it is Christmas day some places of worship (I hesitate to call them churches) have cancelled their services. While the debate probably started on Twitter (don’t they all these days?), and spread to the “Christian” press and websites (e.g. see “The Christian Post”), it eventually reached the New York Times, hardly an evangelical rag.

I should mention at this point that I have skin in this particular game. I come from a theologically fairly conservative background, and remember at least one childhood Christmas that fell on a Sunday. Because of my aged state I’m afraid I can’t remember the details of that particular Christmas day. But I do remember having the distinct impression that this was a Sunday to be spent like every other Sunday. Same meetings (with perhaps the exception of the Sunday afternoon Bible class), same content. Jesus' birth may have been mentioned, but only as the necessary prelude to His life, death and resurrection. The world may have been celebrating with its trees and tinsel, but that was nothing to do with us. There was also perhaps a touch of if the world was happy we had to be miserable. None of us can entirely escape our backgrounds, so I still find myself in two minds about all the Christmas hullabaloo (ie the trees and tinsel) and still sometimes find myself wondering what it has to do with me.

As an aside, there are those who end up in roughly the same place but come at it from the opposite direction. Self-confessed “cultural Christian” Poly Toynbee, likes goodwill, the idea of the poor inheriting the earth and the way “the stable stands for the homeless and refugees”. The rest of it (by which I think she means biblical Christianity) she finds “loathsome”. And so she should too. The theology of carols (like “veiled in flesh the Godhead see”) should strike her as bizarre. And there are all sorts of reasons to be appalled at a Saviour born to die on a cross (a “symbol of barbaric torture”). Christmas comes with “religious baggage we should shed” she says. Although one might be forgiven for pointing out that this confuses carts and horses - without the religious "baggage" there would, of course, be no Christmas. Her main motivation, though, appears to be that she wants religious opposition to the “right to die” removed. It is far from clear that is a sure fire way to ensure goodwill to all men. Time will tell. But certainly I can see why, from her point of view, there are logical reasons for a degree of ambivalence about Christmas.

But for me there is no ambivalence that applies to Sundays. I know what Sunday is about. Albeit the English name goes back to pagan times, it’s clear what Christians are to make of the first day of the week. It is the day on which our priority is to come together to focus on and remember Jesus. Maybe Greeks have the right idea (and not for the first time), naming Sunday “Κυριακή”, which is derived from “Κύριος” Lord. The Lord’s day, one that affords that opportunity for fellowship with other believers, with Jesus “in the midst” (as He put it Himself). A weekly opportunity to be provided with fuel for our living as we take our minds of our twitter and RSS feeds and fill them with His word. All of this is mandated; it marked the early Church and should mark churches today. So, on the one hand a (Christmas) day of ambivalence and on the other a (Lord’s) day I’m fairly clear about. Seems like a no brainer as to which should have prominence when the two coincide.

We would, in any case meet as a church on Christmas day, not something I have ever found a chore. But it did lead to a degree of mental and chronological confusion because it meant that a Monday, Tuesday or whatever would end up feeling like a Sunday, without actually being one. At least this year there will be no need for such dissonance. It will be like killing two birds with the one communal stone. This helpful aspect aside, it does seem strange to me that some who claim to be Christians seem keen not to meet, and the suspicion arises that it being Christmas day is an excuse not a reason. A bit like those who think that things like cup finals in which their favourite team is playing is a reason not to meet. This is to put church on the level of a hobby or diversion; it’s really not. This coming Christmas Sunday those of us who followers of Jesus have an extra reason to be together (not a reason for not gathering) to focus with others on what, or rather Who, really matters. And indeed not just His birth, as remarkable as that was. But on His life, death, resurrection, ascension and return.

It was, after all, the Saviour, Christ the Lord, that was born, not just a baby.