Numbers game: Christianity in retreat…?

The end of December is an interesting time of year for all sorts of reasons, some more logical than others. It marks (although somewhat arbitrarily) the end of the year and so tends to be a time for reflection on the year gone by. Currently the memory-fest that is the BBC’s “Sports Personality of the Year” show is on the TV. And of course it is Christmas time, even although the Christmas movie channels went live in mid-October. But I shall try and suppress any further bah-humbuggery. One phenomenon that appears at this time of year is of course an upsurge in religious, specifically Christian, activity and imagery. And this apparently against a backdrop of a claimed precipitous decline in Christianity in the UK and the US – at least according to some headlines.

New figures from the UK Office for National Statistics (ONS) prompted the Religious Affairs correspondent of The Times to headline an article “Losing our religion:Christians poised to become a minority”. Similar stories appeared in various US news outlets similarly prompted by a Pew Research Centre report. In the UK the 2011 census “found that 59.3 % of the English and Welsh population were Christian”, but in updated 2019 figures on a much smaller sample this had fallen to 51% - hence the story. In the Pew data there had been a 12% drop in those self-identifying as Christians between 2011 and 2021. Mind you that drop was from 75% to 63%. Do these numbers mean anything? Well, no and yes.

The notion that as I walk around south Liverpool every second person I encounter is a Christian is laughable. I don’t mean in any way that I live among particularly evil, nasty or even generally unlikable people. By and large Scousers are a friendly and helpful bunch up close and personal. But, friendliness, helpfulness and general likability are not the key criteria that determine whether one is or is not a Christian (although one hopes they are observable characteristics in Christians). This of course simply raises the criterion question, one that always dogs self-report surveys. And here there is a really big problem. In a YouGov survey conducted in 2020 in a large UK sample (N=2169), only 27% said they believed in “a god”, and 41% neither believed in “a god” nor in a “higher power”. Only 20% believed that Jesus was “the son of God". In fact, in that particular survey, 55% did not regard themselves as belonging to any particular religion. Cleary somewhat at odds with the ONS numbers.

The problem here is of course we have to distinguish between the meaning of the word “Christian” in the Biblical sense, and the other senses in which the word is used, such as the ethnic or cultural senses. For what it’s  worth, my view is that it’s the Biblical sense that matters, because rather a lot hangs on it (big stuff like one’s eternal destiny). We have the first recorded use of the word in the New Testament. at Antioch in the first century AD (Acts 11:26). It was probably initially used as an insult; a label given to followers of the “the Way”, disciples of Jesus Christ. And probably few in their “right mind” would want to be thus  labelled. The people to whom the it was originally applied share a number of characteristics with those to whom it appropriately applies today. They made certain claims on their own behalf, and behaved (or aspired to behave) in certain ways. Their central claim (and for that matter my central claim) was (and is) that they (and I) knew (know) Jesus. That should be understood to be different to the claim to know about Jesus. Anyone can (and everyone should) read the Bible, which goes into considerable detail about Jesus, detailing His birth (hence Christmas), His death and resurrection, and His ascension. Knowing about Him is not difficult. But knowing Him is a personal, subjective experience to which individual Christians give witness. And I really do mean know Him in the same way as I know others – whether my wife, children, other relatives or friends.

It is this personal relational aspect that many of those self-identifying as Christians in surveys are probably a bit hazy about. This "knowing" is a two-way phenomenon, and He will only be known on certain grounds. To deny that God is, and to deny that Jesus is God is tantamount to denying that you know Him. It denies who He is, denies His own claims about Himself and completely undermines His central purpose in being born, living and dying the way He did. In His own day, Jesus had various interactions with religious people who by definition were not Christians. These people certainly knew about Him, and many of them in a much more direct way than is possible today. They knew other members of His human family, they knew the town He came from, and other people who grew up with Him, and they heard for themselves from His own lips what He had to say. But even although they stood in front of Him, and conversed with Him, it turned out they didn’t know Him (see John 8:19). And He clearly warned that He would say of many who would claim to know Him, and even do things in His name, that He never knew them (Matt 7:21-23).

Now with all due respect to many who would self-identify in a survey as being a Christian, they are not (and would not claim to be) Christ followers in this sense of knowing Him. They are claiming a far looser association with Jesus, or perhaps no association with Him directly at all. The only link is perhaps with some (human) institution or an even looser association by virtue of an immersion in a culture that is broadly still Christian-like. And if fewer respondents think this is a sensible basis on which to tick the “Christian” box now than previously, this tells us precisely nothing about the state of Christianity properly defined. But that doesn’t mean that it tells us nothing.

As Tom Holland goes to great lengths to show in “Dominion” (not exactly reviewed here), the cultural effects of Christianity are pervasive in the West even still, although probably in decline. Many of course will not lament such a decline. But some, including some atheists, are beginning to murmur that this could throw up lots of thoroughly unwelcome outcomes for society as a whole. Meanwhile, don’t worry too much on behalf of us Christians. We won’t be going anywhere for a bit yet (probably).

Missed metaphor......

Here was me thinking I would just do a quick search on the subject of metaphor and its uses (mainly because I heard Noel Gallagher talking about metaphor in song writing on the radio this morning). I know we all enjoy a good metaphor. I know we all often employ metaphors, including the famous  “sick as a parrot” overused by football reporters. How little I knew. Metaphors, and the discussion of them, are a seething ocean…. See what I mean?

The ubiquity of metaphors in language leads neatly to the notion that metaphor is somehow basic to how we think. Indeed, in what is considered by some to be a classic, paradigm-shaping book published in 1980, “Metaphors we live by”, Lakoff and Johnson claimed exactly that. Metaphors are not just features of language, ways we seek to communicate with each other. They are rooted in basic biology and baked into the way we think, allowing us make sense of the world around us. Indeed, there is empirical evidence that they might do more than this. Thibodeau and Boroditsky (2011) showed that by exposing participants to particular metaphors, it was possible to influence how they thought about particular scenarios. So, comparing a “crime wave” to either a “wild animal preying on” or “a virus infecting” a community, altered their views about how to deal with crime. It’s a short step from this to the idea of using metaphors as “dog whistles” in political discourse (another metaphor). Usually this a charge made against political opponents. But the politicians have worked out that using metaphors in this particular way provides the kind of plausible deniability that they can deploy against their opponents while stirring up (there I go again) their political base. It turns out that this is all hotly contested stuff.

But back to the business of sensible communication. In part, metaphors are useful because they can helpfully illuminate (like good prose), while having a degree of flexibility (they lack the precision of propositions). They can also be used to encapsulate something complex in relatively few words (usually by alluding to an image) and are therefore an economical means of communication. And they can help us grapple with things that are so complex that we cannot understand everything about them, while highlighting what we can understand. And they necessarily engage the imagination in a way other types of language often do not. When you get to thinking about it, Christians (or perhaps even religious-minded people in general) should be at home with them.

The Bible is replete with metaphors, and the reason for at least some of them isn’t too hard to fathom. If the Bible is the primary means of revelation by which a transcendent God, who is a completely different form of being from you and me, makes Himself known to us, then it is hardly a surprise that metaphor is to the fore (as it were). In fact most of our language about God must be metaphorical. Some metaphors are in the form of straightforward anthropomorphisms – Scripture speaks of God’s hands and eyes even although as a being who is spirit He does not literally possess hands and eyes. Others find their meaning within Scripture itself.

In the Old Testament history of Israel, we find the basis of many significant New Testament metaphors. For example, in order to be safe from the punishment that was to fall on Egypt as the climax to a series of plagues, the enslaved Israelites had to take a lamb and sacrifice it. The blood of this lamb, when applied to the doorways of their houses would protect them from what was to happen. This deliverance formed the basis of the Passover feast which was to serve as a reminder of, and pointer to, this great event in their deliverance.

When Jesus appears near the Jordan thousands of years later, John points at Him and calls Him the Lamb of God (John 1:29). In a sense that’s all he has to say. A whole host of images and associations immediately come flooding to those familiar with such language. But they are not looking a young sheep of course. As they look to where John is pointing they find themselves looking at a man. The power of metaphor. And even although this is early in Jesus’ public ministry, there is perhaps an even earlier allusion that employs this same metaphor. It is one that I had entirely missed.

It’s nearly Christmas, and all this week at Bridge we’ve been presenting “the Christmas Journey” to school children – basically a presentation of the Christmas story. I know that it’s only the first week in December, but to be fair we’ve been enduring Christmas movie channels since September. It has always struck me as odd that an angel tells a bunch of shepherds that a baby wrapped in “swaddling cloths” is a sign (Luke 2:12). I suppose it could simply have been that this is how they would know the baby in question was “the” baby as opposed to “a” baby (although presumably the fact that said baby would also be in a  feeding trough would also be a bit of a giveaway). But someone pointed out to me this week that it has been suggested that the shepherds weren’t just any old shepherds; they were “Levitical” shepherds. And they were specifically tasked with raising lambs for sacrifice up at the temple in Jerusalem, lambs that had to be perfect. These were not strictly speaking Passover lambs for the most part, but that’s where the flexibility of a good metaphor is useful. To increase the shepherds' chances of producing quality lambs (i.e. without “spot of blemish) and decrease their losses, lambs would often be birthed in special shepherds' caves in the vicinity of Bethlehem, and then bound in cloths (swaddling cloths) to prevent cuts, bruises and other damage. This, in effect, identified them as sacrificial lambs. So, now the direction to go and look at a baby wrapped in swaddling cloths takes on a whole new significance. These particular shepherds looking at that particular baby, triggers all those metaphorical associations that John would highlight about thirty years later.

We don’t know if the shepherds made all of these connections. Nor do we know when Jesus first disciples managed to get their heads around what John said. But this particular metaphor is worth bearing in mind for the next few weeks.

Why does science matter?

Although it’s really my last post that prompted this one, I am admittedly returning to something I’ve blogged about before. It was a while ago, so I won’t take it personally if you can’t remember what those particular posts were about. I’ll try not to repeat any of the specifics here as you can obviously go back and read them (eg here and here). But having opined about why theology matters (about which I know relatively little), it seemed only fair to reflect on what I spent most of my adult life working in.

However, there are a couple of issues we have to deal with first. Although it’s common to talk about “science” as though it is a single institution, it really isn’t. There is no single body that polices a rule book, and the reality is that there is no single agreed definition or set of rules. There is also no single agreed scientific method. It used to be thought that a single recipe for doing good science might be either discoverable or definable, and that a single, coherent method could be established. And of course the philosophers got busy trying to cook one up. But with due respect to the likes of Francis Bacon, John Locke, William Whewell, Karl Popper and Thomas Kuhn, none of them really produced anything that you could pull off a shelf, apply to a problem and obtain a “scientific answer”. Indeed the most many of them managed was an attempt at describing what scientists actually did. This is an interesting exercise in its own right. Mind you, it has always seemed to me that they were overly infatuated with physics, from which they drew many of their key examples. If of course science is just one thing, and there is a single method, then why not start with an area of science that seems to have delivered. Perhaps this explains why “big physics” is often reported in the media and is supported by such massive sums of public money (over the last decade the UK has invested an average of £152M per year in CERN alone). Biology has usually suffered in comparison. The philosophers didn’t seem to like biology that much, it was maybe too wet and messy.

It’s odd, but all this philosophical effort, individually and cumulatively, has had relatively little impact on the activities of scientists themselves. By and large they just got on doing “it”, and apparently quite successfully. It looked like there might be a common core of things that were a good idea, things like collecting evidence, forming tentative explanations, and then testing these rather than just blithely accepting and asserting them. But single, codified, rigorous method? Not really. Occasionally, individual scientists were influenced by reading about what they were supposed to be doing in the writings of one or more of the aforementioned philosophers or thinkers (many of whom were not themselves scientists). They might try to construe their activities in the sort of terms they had read about. But this all tended to be rather post-hoc. Suspiciously, such accounts tended to crop up in books written at the end of careers, as though they were a relatively recent discovery.

Now this all may be a good or a bad thing. But part of the problem is that relatively few pure science degrees (particularly in the Anglo-Saxon world) provide a rigorous introduction to the intellectual procedures involved in science. There are lots of lectures, lots of learning about great previous experiments, occasional attempt to repeat them and so on. Such degrees are certainly fact-packed (and very often great fun too – mine was!). But as to the principles of how your thinking was supposed to operate, one was rather expected to simply imbibe or intuit this. To be fair, this is a criticism that has so often made, that in many degree programmes today there may be an optional module in the philosophy of science. But it is rarely a key component of the education of a young scientist. And this has the disturbing consequence of a highly skilled but philosophically unsophisticated workforce.

None of this means that science (in its various forms) has been generally unsuccessful; clearly it hasn’t. But one unwelcome effect has been the unfortunate inability of many of us scientists (and I include myself in this) to helpfully articulate why science has been successful, what its product has enabled, and why this all matters. What we often end up with is hubristic, triumphalist babble that can sometimes seem  more like paternalistic propaganda. Scientists do all have skin in the game of course, because many of us earn our money from the scientific enterprise. And the source of that money is very often hard-pushed taxpayers, and in the case of the health and clinical sciences, patients. When we try to explain what we’re up to and why it matters, we can sometimes sound rather as though we’re saying that you should simply trust us (and keep paying us) because we know what’s best, and it would be far too complicated to explain to you.

Now there is a sense in which this is true. These days the technical details are often complicated, and a degree of trust is required. But the problem is that because we have not articulated well enough or often enough how science works (in its various forms), trust is now rather lacking. This is illustrated by the range of responses to the undoubted success of the vaccines developed to combat the COVID19 pandemic. The mRNA vaccines that have been so successful are the product of a completely new approach to vaccine development that emerged from years of patient and largely unheralded basic science, working out the details of what goes on in cells at a molecular level. The speed at which this led to highly effective vaccines coming into use and saving lives was unprecedented. And yet, all over the world there is significant resistance to their use and a marked reluctance to their uptake.  

Part of the problem is that science doesn’t exist within a bubble. The “modern” world that science both grew up in and helped to shape, has now morphed into a very different context. Intellectual authority is now a weakness and trust has been undermined. We now have facts, duly established by tried and tested procedures (technical and intellectual) duelling in the media with alt-facts (opinion, suspicion and assertion dressed up as facts). And the individualism that stemmed from the same revolution that gave rise to modern science, means everyone is an expert who has to understand the evidence, even when everyone really isn’t an expert and really can’t weigh the evidence in an appropriate way.

Science really is the best way we have to generate certain types of reliable information of critical importance. It cannot answer any and all questions, but it has and can answer some really important ones. At the edges of course, there is scope for debate as to what is and what is not an appropriate question that can be answered scientifically. Over-claiming, often by prominent scientists, or putting down other approaches in non-scientific domains (like theology among others) has done science no favours. But make no mistake – science has mattered in the past, is making a big impact now, and will be needed in the future. It will continue to matter - bigtime.

Why does theology matter?

It struck me the other day that this was a question I really should have an answer to, even if it is only an answer to the related question of why theology matters to me. After all I’ve now shelled out hard cash to actually do a master’s degree in theology – begs the question as to why. The answer could be as simple as I’ve decided to study something that for a complex of reasons is of interest to me. I could be studying trees or trains, but it just happens to be theology. So it matters in the sense and to the extent that any other hobby might matter But I’m a lazy hobbyist. While I could have just read a pile of books on my own over the next couple of years, I need the externally imposed discipline of an academic structure to make me actually do it. The last bit is true as it happens. I probably do need a bit of imposed discipline because of my innate indolence. And if I actually got round to hobby theology reading, it would in all likelihood be easy and familiar stuff. There’s certainly lots of fluffy pop theology out there to be read. But it has to matter more than this I think. I’m not at a stage in this life where I have the time to bumble around wandering off into stuff.

But before answering why it matters, it might be worth working out what “it” is. Normally these days in polite society, the word theology is qualified. While linguistically it is simply a word which means the “ology” of God (or the study of “theos”), that simply begs further questions. Some maintain that on that basis theology is the study of nothing. But for most of history this has been a minority view; the idea of studying God is not, at least at first blush, ridiculous.

In my corner of the world, for a long time (or at least a couple of thousand years), the God in view was well recognized, if inevitably only dimly understood. He was the God revealed in the Bible, and to a lesser extent in all the stuff the Bible claimed He was responsible for. This was and is a lot of stuff, because it is literally everything that exists. So everyone was clear that this God was the subject matter of the discipline of theology. Indeed for some time those centres of “higher” learning we call universities were places where people beavered away in just one discipline – theology. But things have changed. Not only is there no consensus as to whether there is a God, but even among those who agree that there is, there is no consensus as to who He is, or in which ways He (or she/it/them) may be known and studied. Hence the need to qualify theology with other words like Christian, Biblical, Islamic etc. And because theology is usually conceived of as an academic discipline, and in the modern academy one has to specialize, the word is usually further qualified by terms like historical, pastoral, systematic etc.

That all said, for me it’s quite easy to cut through a lot of this apparent and largely unhelpful complexity. As any reader of this blog will be able to work out quite quickly (particularly if you read my profile) I’m a Christian. So already the question as to whether there is a God or not is answered. Not only is there a God, but He has revealed Himself ultimately in the person of Jesus and throughout history in the Bible. I know this because I know Him. That’s kind of the point. So it’s this God whose words and ways I want to spend the next couple of years studying in more depth and detail than I’ve been able to up to this point. While I see no need to qualify the word theology, to be helpful and for the sake of clarity, I mean Christian and Biblical Theology. This still leaves open lots of different avenues to explore. God’s revealing of Himself in history has been dynamic not static, and it has been primarily relational not propositional (although appropriate propositions are important). So how ideas about Him have developed in the history covered by the Bible, as He has progressively revealed Himself (He didn’t just dump all the information we could cope with in one dollop), is an important thing to study, as is how thinking about that revelation has itself developed is important. This God and claims and ideas about Him have greatly affected individuals and communities in history and continue to do so today; this is important for understanding today’s world. How people have responded to this God, thus revealed, and how we should respond, is also something worth contemplating. For these reasons and many more besides, spending time in theological study does indeed matter. And it’s not all about observing effects on other people.

Who God is, and what He says, is not just worth studying in terms of their effects on others. All of this is not external to me such that I am able to be a detached observer. I already know from science that there is no such thing as completely independent and objective experimentation in which I as observer merely observe. This is even more the case in theology. After all I am called to love this God whom I am seeking to study with all of my heart, soul and mind (Matthew 22:37). As I do that I’m to be “transformed” by the “renewing of my mind” (Rom 12:2). At the very least this implies change for me as I study. It is true that all learning implies change, although only in some cases will this be externally observable (changes in observable attitudes and behaviours). But that cannot be the case here. And in the case of theology, such change should not just be for my personal benefit, but for the benefit of others, in the particular faith community that I identify with (usually called a “church”).

So, doing theology will (should) bring about change. It would be odd to embark on a course of action that one expects to bring about bad change, so you won’t be surprised to learn that I think this will be good change. And if it is good, and it is big (whatever big means in this context), then it will matter at least to me. If it is good and big and in some way brings benefits to others, then it will matter even more.  

Logically, the atheists could be right, in which case I’m simply delusional. If I am, then at least I am in a large and distinguished company. But I don’t think I am (delusional that is). We shall see.

Life goes on - or doesn’t

Strange times. One of the features of the pandemic has been the truly heroic efforts of healthcare workers to reach those in need, and provide them with the care necessary to see them through their crisis to recovery. At the height of the first lockdown, many of us stood on our doorsteps and clapped each week for a number of weeks to recognize and support these efforts. We locked down and stayed at home to prevent sickness and avoid deaths. We put the education of the young into deep-freeze to protect mainly the elderly and those vulnerable for reasons other than their age. But that was then, and this is now. Time has moved on and it’s interesting that it is in this context a very different attitude has been asserting itself.

There is now, and has been for some time, a vocal lobby in the UK advocating for a change in the law to allow the taking of life. The name of what is being advocated changes. It has been called all of euthanasia, assisted suicide, mercy killing, assisted dying, and other things beside. Somewhere I have no doubt PR specialists have been working to establish which term causes the least public anxiety and is likely to garner most public support. But the campaign is definitely up and running. Robert Shrimley’s column in the FT caught my eye back in August (“The time is ripe for citizens’ voices on assisted dying”, FT, 25/8/21; it’s behind the FT’s paywall unfortunately). A number of medical professional organisations have been changing their stance on “assisted dying” from opposition to “neutrality”. Then there was the proposal of Orkney MSP Liam McArthur for a bill to go through the Scottish parliament, which is currently out to public consultation. Most recently we had the debate on Baroness Meacher’s “assisted suicide” bill in the House of Lords.

This is not the first time there have been such debates of course, and the arguments made in the Lords were familiar enough. It is not likely to be the last time they are heard. The proponents are quick to claim they are promoting human dignity and autonomy – individual dignity and autonomy that is. It should be a matter of choice. We have choice in every other area of life, on what basis should it be denied in this one area? In this area though, talking about individual choice is misleading, One person’s right to choose to die, at least on the basis of most current proposals, is the imposition of an obligation to kill (or to assist in a killing) on someone else (usually a medical practitioner). And death, any death, like birth, does not just affect a single individual even in our particularly individualised culture. If someone wishes to die, there are a number of courses of action individuals can, and tragically do, take. That is not what this debate appears to be about. It is about state-sponsored, legislated and organized killing. This is why (as Lord Winston pointed out in the Lords debate), terminology matters; an "assisted" death, inevitably draws others in.  

Opponents of the current proposals rehearsed their (equally familiar) arguments too. Practicalities were prominent, as was the “slippery slope” argument. This raises an interesting question. If, in a modern, liberal, democracy, assisted suicide/euthanasia is legalized, what happens? This, at least in theory, is now an answerable question as there are a number of such jurisdictions – the state of Oregon in the US, Quebec in Canada and Belgium and the Netherlands in Europe are examples. However, it turns out that how you interpret the data depends on which side of the argument you start. Proponents argue that in none of these places have things progressed to mass killing. Opponents point out that numbers have risen inexorably  (Belgium: 2002, 24 cases – 2016/17, 4337; Netherlands: 2006, 1923 – 2017, 6585), and laws have been extended (eg in both Belgium and the Netherlands from only adults to children). Practice in terms of adhering to laws is variable and difficult to monitor and there could be even more slippage “under the radar”. The riposte is that these are practical matters that will have practical solutions. But such solutions are going to fall on an already overworked and overstretched healthcare system. Are resources and safeguards really going to be allocated to deathcare as opposed to other aspects of healthcare? Currently in the UK even our hospices, where high standards of palliative and end-of-life care are available, are not within the state healthcare system. They are largely supported by public donations and sponsorship. Surely the provision of proper end-of-life care should have priority over ending life “care”?

We live in culture where the beginning of life is just as contested. Individual rights and autonomy have been exalted, and the individual and societal cost has been high. In England and Wales 210,860 abortions were reported in 2020, the highest so far recorded (that averages out at over 20 per hour, every hour, over the year). The 1967 Act was introduced with all sorts of safeguards, but sent a signal that had a range of unintended consequences. I am not, as it happens, an absolutist on the abortion issue; an absolute ban would be unworkable and undesirable. And things like aggressive protesting outside centres providing abortions (let alone the violence that has occasionally erupted) cannot be condoned. But perhaps it can be agreed that the situation we currently have is not the sign of a healthy society. And, critically for the current debate, promises made during the original debate, and safeguards introduced to prevent "mission creep", both turned out to be rather hollow. 

Legislating in such complex areas is tragically difficult and should never be undertaken with the breezy confidence exhibited by some of the supporters of Baroness Meacher’s bill. The law has to define, and by definition, it codifies. But some areas of life (and death) defy easy definition and codification. Leaving it to judgement and conscience may be messy, but it is a lot better than the alternatives.

Life in the pandemic XXXI Gamekeeper turned poacher…..

Did I mention I was once a student? In case you missed it, the answer is “yes” and I wrote about it recently! It was a long time ago, and the world was different in a number of ways. And of course I was different. Apart from anything else I was a callow youth, just turned seventeen, when I started. And it would be fair to say that I had led a fairly sheltered existence to that point. Sheltered that is from lots of things that might have done me harm. Life is experience, but avoiding certain experiences does not inevitably lead to an impoverished life. There are definitely some things it is better to read about in books than experience in reality. We all lead sheltered lives in one form or another. First time around as a student I had a lot of growing up to do, as well as a lot of stuff to learn. And I did my growing and learning as part of a particular community.

In the days when only a relatively small proportion of UK teenagers enjoyed the privilege of a University education (about 10% in the late 70’s), University could be a bit of hothouse affair because the population was small and fairly homogeneous. And to some extent while it was possible to branch out and embrace new things, the range of novelty was in some ways quite restricted. While it could be a hothouse, University was not the hotbed of radicalism that it was sometimes portrayed as being. Clubs and societies were a big part of student life, and for me that meant a lot of time spent with fellow students in the Christian Union. Numerically, the Labour Club at Glasgow University probably claimed the largest membership on campus. But every week there were 100 or more of us at the main CU meeting, and there were lots of faculty and other groups meeting weekly too. For some radicals on the left, the Labour Club was a bit on the tame side; they joined the Socialist Workers Student Society (known to all as “Swiz”). Swiz once organised a meeting on “Jesus: the first socialist” to which a number of us CU types decided to go. Our 7 or 8 (it may have been more) somewhat outnumbered the 3 or 4 Swiz members who turned up. They didn’t appear to know too much about either Jesus or socialism in its various forms; and we, it turned out, were probably suggesting more radical answers than they were. But they weren’t that impressed.

It was in the CU as much as in the University where many life-long friendships (and not a few marriages) were formed. Because we were all growing up together, it did make for a fairly intense atmosphere. Sometimes the business of getting a degree seemed like a secondary activity. Even if universities hadn’t changed in the intervening forty-something years (and they have), this could only be a once in a lifetime experience. Time marches on, experience is accumulated, and accompanied by change. Certainly a change in perspective. As a member of staff in a number of universities over the years, it was my turn to experience the frustration of students not paying attention when I thought they should and not bringing the focus to their studies that I thought they demanded. After all, University is only a few short years; why can’t they forswear the “distractions” and just concentrate on studying. We put all that effort into crafting the pearls to be laid out before them. Some would say my experience was justice; the universe is getting me back for my lack of respect for my lecturers and lab demonstrators. In general though, students seem to be a much more serious bunch these days than I think we were. I’ve met more than a few labouring under various pressures that seemed to take a lot of the enjoyment out of their time at University. Such pressures were probably always there, but in recent times they have intensified. Certainly the financial pressures on many students today are more intense – we were paid to go to University.

Now I’m reverting and after several decades I have decided to throw off the privileges and responsibilities of being an academic and member of staff, and returning to being a student. I will shortly begin studying in the Master of Theology (MTh) programme at Union School of Theology. For some of the reasons alluded to above of course it will not be the same as first time round. I’m older, and while there’s always room for personal development, I’m also “all growed up”. I approach the task in a different way as a different person compared to my approach when I was seventeen. Hopefully I have learned a thing or two about learning since then.

The subject of study will be different – not Physiology and Neurobiology but Theology. A new and different discipline; new tools to master as well as different subject matter. Some aspects of study are the same across disciplines, but I expect differences too. It would hubris of the highest order to think that a training in science has provided all I need to embark on studies in theology. This time there is also more of a vocational motivation rather than it being just an “academic” exercise. Calvin wrote in the Institutes “...however fitting it may be for a man seriously to turn his eyes to contemplate God's works .... it is fitting that he prick up his ears to the Word, the better to profit." There will be an aspect of personal challenge and change because of the ultimate subject matter that was absent previously.

In some corners of the Church, theological study is viewed with suspicion, occasionally being seen as inimical to a lively faith. But the  greatest commandment includes that aspect of loving God with all of the mind. While this doesn’t mean everyone needs to embark on a theology degree, it certainly means that this is a wholly legitimate exercise for some of us (provided it is undertaken in the right spirit). The setting will be different too from my first time around.  Union is a relatively small college/seminary as opposed large city university. I’m sure there will be friendships and interaction, maybe even the occasional bit of creative intellectual tension. But for all the reasons above (and more) it won’t be the same, nor should it be.

The poacher/gamekeeper analogy probably isn’t that helpful. But there is a grain of truth in it. I confess that there will be part of me viewing the process with a professional academic eye and wondering if the programme specification is being followed to the letter. But another part of me will be glad that such things are really no longer my concern. I can just get back to learning, “the better to profit”.  

Life in the pandemic XXX Life in transition…

Life is change, so it is said. Change is certainly a big part of life. Over a period of seven to ten years, every cell in our bodies is changed. So the “me” of today, is probably completely biologically different to the “me” of ten years ago, never mind the “me” that was born 59 years ago. If I thought about this for long enough, I might find it quite disturbing! But this kind of change is just a given, so of course I don’t normally think about it at all. Other change is expected, like progressing through life, from school to University, to a job (or jobs) to retirement. Ah yes, retirement. Which brings me to the subject of this post.

I’ve been very fortunate to enjoy a long(ish) career in science. I started as a student in 1979, arriving in October that year at the University of Glasgow, to begin a degree in biological sciences. In those day you were given “faculty” entry which meant that over the four years of an honours degree you gradually specialised. So your final degree subject might not be clear until well through the four years. I arrived with no grand plan, and gradually wandered my way to a degree in Physiology. It was a very different time. There were nine students in final honours Physiology class of 1982/83, and we had some excellent teachers at the top of their game, including a Regius Professor no less.

I still had no grand plan when considering what to do next. But I enjoyed being around the University, and had plenty of biological curiosity. Doing a PhD seemed to be an easier option than actually looking for a job, and there were a number of studentships on offer around the Faculty. I eventually plumped for one that held out the promise of spending some time at a marine biological lab in France. It was France that was the main attraction though, not the lab. So I embarked on my PhD which involved investigating the nervous system and behaviour of the Norway lobster, better known as scampi (as in scampi and chips). Somewhere in cyberspace you can probably find a copy of my thesis which duly appeared just over three years later: Statocyst, input, multimodal interactions, and their effects on motor outputs in the Norway lobster, Nephrops norvegicus (L.). It was never likely to be a blockbuster. Along the way I had the privilege of attending the 1986 Gifford Lectures given by Donald McKay. I had encountered his apologetics and heard him speak previously. But as the resident Zoology Department “religious nut”, I was invited to go to lunch with him, along with one of the Zoology staff. I think this was because it was thought I would be able to engage in “God talk” with him. I can’t remember what we actually discussed. But I do remember clearly the grace with which he would deal with some of the questions after his lectures, even the bizarre ones from a particular befurred and hatted lady from Hyndland who was at every one of the lectures in the series.

There was still no grand plan when I managed to land my first post-doc job in the University of Hull, nor when I moved back to Scotland when the lab I had joined moved. We formed part of the fledgling Laboratory for Neuroscience in the University of Edinburgh. By then my interests had moved from lobsters to vertebrates, although still to do with the balance system. Edinburgh is a beautiful city (I write this through gritted fingers as a Glaswegian), and its University was and is a stimulating intellectual environment. I had dining rights in the Pharmacology staff common room where almost everything and anything might be debated. A highlight of these discussions was almost any interjection by Bernard Ginsborg, former head of Department, and polymath. Bernard started out in Physics, swapped to Physiology and then made seminal contributions in Pharmacology. He had a breadth of knowledge and interests that these days is all too rare. If he had any influence on me it was to encourage resistance to the tiresome hyper specialisation that is a feature of modern academic life. This might enable faster and further ascent up the academic greasy pole, but it makes for really boring conversation. The other thing that was noteworthy, is that you never had the feeling that you were being talked down to by Bernard. And it must have been a bit of a temptation with some of us relative youngsters. It was also at Edinburgh, that I was able to attend another series of Gifford Lectures, Mary Midgley’s 1990 series, later published as “Science and Salvation”.

It was in this stimulating environment that I was encouraged to apply for, and managed to obtain, a Wellcome Trust Vision Research Fellowship. This allowed me to develop my own little niche (while trying to avoid tiresome specialisation!). My project involved investigating the interactions between visual signals from the retina and feedback proprioceptive signals from the muscles which move the eyes (a development of the work we had been doing on the vestibular system). This was at the time, and remains, pretty obscure stuff. And the details needn’t detain us (in any case they can be found in the papers we published). But it was at this time I really began to focus on eye movements, an interest that I developed and transferred from various animal species to humans. By this stage it was becoming clear that I had to shift from doing animal experiments. Measuring eye movement turned out to be quite a good way of probing what was going on inside heads without opening them up and sticking an electrode in. This precipitated a move from Edinburgh to the Optometry department in Glasgow Caledonian University. GCU is one of Scotland’s “new” universities (some of my Edinburgh colleagues were quite sniffy about it), but its Optometrists knew lots about human eyes, and they had their own clinic which provided the interface with people that I needed.

By now I was interested almost exclusively in human eye movement, doing behavioural experiments in which we made careful measurements of the timing of eye  movements. This included work on both healthy people and patients. There was even a series of experiments we did on patients with Schizophrenia. This involved moving the lab to a psychiatric facility which had been newly opened in the east end of the city of Glasgow, near Glasgow Celtic’s famous Parkhead football ground. Whisper it ever so gently, but this is probably an excellent location for such a facility. In the event I was only at GCU for two years or so. A job advert appeared which specifically mentioned the study of eye movements as being something the Division of Orthoptics in the University of Liverpool was interested in. Not knowing what Orthoptics even was (I confess to my shame) I didn’t understand why they were interested in eye movements. Although the post was advertised at Senior Lectureship level, I decided to apply. To my surprise I was invited for interview, and to my greater surprise I was offered the job. And so for the last twenty-two years, Liverpool is where I have ploughed my furrow.

For a number of reasons, my time in the University of Liverpool has now drawn to a close. There have been some scientific highlights. Again, the details needn’t detain us; they’re documented in the papers we’ve published over the years (many of which can be accessed here). I’m taking early retirement because the time has come to do something else. That something else (and this might come as a surprise) is theology, in which I will be undertaking a Masters. Given the old trope about the necessary incompatibility between science and faith, it’s worth saying why. Throughout my scientific career, I have practiced science as a Christian. I have neither ceased being a Christian at my lab door, nor have ceased being a thinking person at the church door.  I am using Christian in its Biblical sense of course – I am a follower of Jesus Christ. And of the worst sort too! I am firmly convinced of necessity, reality and transforming power of His death on a cross approximately two thousand years ago, and of the historical  reality and evidential value of his bodily resurrection. I know about these things because I also believe that the Bible, including the relevant New Testament documents, provide not just a reliable record of certain key events, but are God’s Word – that is, God is their source and preserver, so that today the Bible remains authoritative in everything therein taught. I think this is ample reason why the Bible’s contents and their implications are worthy of rigorous academic study. The type of study that I’m now itching to embark on.

Now it is clearly logically possible that I either was always potty, insanely gullible or both, or that I have recently developed such traits. But I don’t think so. It must be also logically possible that I am correct in my conclusions, perspective and beliefs. But the Bible I read, doesn’t just make claims on me. It makes them on us all. If it’s true, then it’s not just “true for me” – it’s true for us all. 

In any case, here comes an interesting retirement. I’m sure I’ll post more about it here.