Disciplinary matters…..

I have written previously about my switching disciplines at a relatively late stage of life, swapping my scientific laboratory for a desk in my study and theological tomes ancient and modern. For me it has been largely without frustration for a number of reasons. First of all I suppose that this is because I am under little pressure related to my studies in theology. I am not doing it as a prelude to anything in particular. And despite the fact that people keep asking what comes next, I have no difficulty in replying that I don’t have a clue. In a sense (at least in the sense that is normally meant) I’m not doing it for anything. Secondly, I thought for a while about where I should study and with whom. These days it is relatively easy to study as a distance student at any number of prestigious institutions, so I had the pick of a range running from well-known University departments to various seminaries and Bible Colleges.

The academic snob in me saw the attraction of a masters from one of the more established seats of learning, perhaps one of the universities that I had previously inhabited. But theology transformed into something called “religious studies” in many such places a long time ago. My settled starting point for theology is that God has revealed Himself in a number of ways, but primarily in the person of His Son, and in the form of His word the Bible. For any theology nerds still reading, this will sound ridiculously out of date. But because these days we all claim to believe in tolerance, this might be accepted as a position to be established and defended (although largely assumed to be indefensible), that is accepted as a possible destination but not as a starting point. So, had I studied in most University theology or religious studies departments I was anticipating a frustrating period of defending the (apparently) indefensible, while perhaps learning a theological language that appeared not to say much about anything and little of any wider value. One might stumble into the realms of the sociology or psychology of religion, both useful in their own way in understanding today’s world, but neither actual theology. On reflection this did not seem to me to be an attractive prospect. Hence I chose Union, where we were at least starting from the same basis (or bias), and then doing Christian theology (the word has to be qualified these days to be meaningful).

The centre of my studies has been Scripture. Indeed technically I am doing an MTh in “Scripture and Theology”. While for most of the last two millennia this would have seemed like an entirely sensible combination, in many a theology faculty in our major universities it would be regarded as anachronistic. The Bible is just one human document of interest among many others to those of a religious disposition. Like those others it is a mixed bag. Occasional bursts of inspiring language and intriguing aphorisms, lots of mythology, and claims that today are neither true nor believable. Much of this is assumed to have been firmly established thanks to the diligent work of dedicated scholars stretching back perhaps as far as the 18^th century. Except that a sceptical frame of mind (always a good idea in my view) quickly became a philosophical campaign with its own blind spots and prejudices. Some of the “findings” and claims of the 18^th and 19^th century Biblical critics (and some of their more recent incarnations) turned out to be built on shaky historical and textual foundations. But such an edifice had been erected that there was no interest in dismantling it and finding other approaches (or even reverting older ones). Academic theology that became committed to a critical (in the wrong sense) view of Scripture fairly quickly found its ways into pulpits with predictable results; a mutilated Gospel, empty churches and a community in a crisis of multiple confusions.

This rather negative view of academic theology is neither original or peculiar to me. There has long been those both in theology and the Church that viewed the critical view of Scripture as misconceived as well as being based on shaky intellectual foundations, and there has long been opposition to it. Some of the opposition came from within theology and the Church, but occasionally some came from other Christian academics. I recently came across “A Lawyer Among the Theologians”, written by Sir Norman Anderson, and published in 1973. Anderson was one of those key post-war evangelicals who was of the first rank academically and intellectually. He was a name fairly well known to students of my generation. In this particular book he looked at the theology of the 60’s and 70’s from the point of view of one who was trained (as a lawyer) to analyse evidence and arguments. As far as I can judge he tried to be fair to the theology he discussed as it applied to the Jesus of history, the resurrection, the atonement and some of the writings of Bishop John Robinson (Anderson himself was also an Anglican who would go on to be the first chairman of the C of E House of Laity). At the end of the book he writes:

I must confess, that as an academic from another discipline—together, I believe, with a lot of other people who are neither theologians nor ministers of religion—I am becoming increasingly tired of the attitude of mind betrayed by many members of theological faculties and occupants of pulpits. It seems to me of very questionable propriety (I nearly said honesty) for them to cite New Testament texts freely when these texts accord with their own views, but ignore (or even evade) them when they do not; to quote passages from the Bible freely, but give them a meaning and application which I very much doubt if any court of law would regard as what their authors meant or intended; and to make dogmatic assertions about what can, and what cannot, be accepted as authentic or historical without any adequate evidence for these statements. As I said at the beginning of this book, members of theological faculties seem to me to indulge in more mutual contradictions, and more categorical statements about matters which are still wide open to debate, than any other academics. They are, of course, fully entitled to their opinions; but I do wish they would distinguish between theory and fact, and treat their evidence in a fair and responsible way. (Anderson, A Lawyer Among the Theologians, p229)

A long quotation, but it is salutary (at least to me) that this was written fifty years ago. I feel his pain. As another “academic from another discipline” (somewhat further removed from theology compared to Anderson) I confess that, in some of what I have been reading, and in some statements of certain clerics, I have noticed and been equally annoyed at some of the same traits. I hope that in my new studies the worst I could be accused of is treating my evidence in a fair and responsible way. 

I, Robot (but it’s really me, not robot)

Channelling my inner corporal Jones, I feel it necessary to shout a resounding “Don’t panic!” in response to recent headlines on the front pages of formally well-respected “newspapers”. For example consider this one which appeared in the Times on 31/5/23: “AI Pioneers fear extinction”. What was in view was not their extinction at all but ours as the sub-headline made clear: “Our creations are as great a threat to humanity as nuclear war or pandemics, say hundred of experts in call to regulate tech”. This was followed by another front-page story on 6^th June “Two years to save the world, says AI adviser”. The AI adviser in question was Matt Clifford, and the person he advises is the Prime Minister, Rishi Sunak. Mind you, all was not what it seemed. Mr Clifford felt it necessary to take to twitter to make clear that the headline did not reflect his view, and was not a fair summary of the interview he had given (you can find the details in this twitter thread). What has prompted many of these stories (besides the desire of politicians in various jurisdictions to deflect attention from other current difficulties) is the bursting into public consciousness of “generative AI” systems like “ChatGPT” and “Bard”.

First of all it’s just worth taking a breath and being clear what we are discussing. “AI” sounds like a thing, and in the minds of some it has taken on the characteristics of a malevolent personality. But, at least in the form of these “large language models” (LLMs, the family to which ChatGPT and Bard belong) this is far from the truth. Basically were are talking about large machine learning systems which work as pattern recognizers. Using a supercomputer (i.e. a very big and very expensive computer), software is designed which can be “trained” on vast amounts of data (digitised books, information from the internet, and other inputs) to attach statistics to patterns of output given specific inputs. Many of the techniques involved are not particularly new, although machine learning has been developing rapidly over the last few decades. The new factor is the vast amount of computing power which can now be deployed. Simpler systems for carrying out specific tasks have been available for a while and have been applied in areas like medical diagnosis (e.g. spotting tumours in mammograms) or security systems (detecting someone walking across a lawn in a video). But analysing language is much more complicated, requiring much more computing power to detect and define relevant patterns.

The scale of these recently developed LLM’s is huge. Think in terms of all the information on the interweb and the digitised content of several large University libraries (i.e. petabytes). This is boiled down to parameters represented in the software. In the case of ChatGPT we are talking on the order of 200 billion parameters! This complexity and the computing power that it requires allows for the production of quite sophisticated output given various language prompts. But it also creates a problem. To really exploit these systems takes a degree of skill in asking them the "right" questions; a whole new discipline of “probe design” has emerged to deal with this. There are only so many times that you can ask Bard for five jokes about John Calvin before it gets boring. But this is actually something worth doing, because it illustrates something else – you’re unlikely to get any real rib-ticklers back. Because the LLM doesn’t do funny (or knowledge, or insight). It does pattern recognition (i.e. what other words are connected with “john calvin” and/or “joke”) and information processing (which are statistically the most likely combinations of words and word arrangements that are like “jokes” encountered in training). 

You might be inclined to argue that humour is just too hard a test. Even humans have a hard time defining what is and what is not funny. And for many tasks, information processing is just fine. So, generating 5000 words on agriculture in 19^th century Bulgaria might be a more useful task (should you need to write an essay on such a topic). One can see why schools and Universities are having to think hard about whether they should routinely allow such systems to be used. But this is nothing new. The issue used to be the use of calculators in maths lessons and exams. And education is not (or should not) only be about producing buckets of information (informational  widgets). That is, after all, exactly the kind of thing that computers are good at. It should be about the development of insight and wisdom and the correct selection and application of knowledge within appropriate ethical boundaries. Although perhaps that actually requires a combination of classroom education, example, age and experience. We have always employed teachers and lecturers (worth their weight in gold in my view); we have never just sat students down next to piles of books (or iPads) even although some AI proponents think this should be one of its uses. But not just education is having to think about how to use (or not) the new generative AI systems.

The editor of the Financial Times, Roula Khalaf, in a letter published at the end of May (26/5/23) on “..generative AI and the FT”, felt it necessary to say that while generative AI “has obvious and potentially far-reaching implications for journalists and editors in the way we approach our daily work” there were problems with it. “They [AI systems] can fabricate facts..and make up references and links. If sufficiently manipulated, AI models can produce entirely false images and articles. They also replicate the existing societal perspectives, including historic biases.” This hints at issues like how LLMs are trained. Their inputs are “cleaned” and edited, they have already been shaped by someone, somewhere. But who decides what goes in and what is left out? You and I aren’t told; someone in Google or at Microsoft has decided using criteria that are not public. And how different inputs are weighted (ie what’s really important and what is less so), is also determined by others, locking in certain kinds of analysis. All of the information that might be used to train an LLM, even if not cleaned, edited or prepared in some way, already has embedded in it various biases and prejudices, including all those that fall in the collective blind-spot of our particular age. The point is not only that we are not told about these and any of the values applied or other tweaks performed to ensure that outputs are acceptable. The point is that we don't know and can't know what they are; exactly what is being "learned" in machine learning systems is not knowable by us. It is hidden by design. Khalaf continued that “FT journalism in the new AI age will continue to be reported and written by humans”; educated, experienced, mentored and quite possibly aged humans (I assume). Knowledge is more than words, and wisdom is more than knowledge. All of this is only a big problem if you spend you life looking at a screen and your only friends are sentences.

But LLMs are only one kind of AI. Perhaps there are other kinds that are more dangerous. Words matter otherwise I wouldn't be wasting my time writing this. And I should point out that it really is me, and not an AI system. Bad words and misinformation are dangerous. But compared to climate change, war, pandemics and famine, which cumulatively are already killing millions in today’s world, they are not that dangerous. If you don’t want to be constantly misinformed and outraged, go cold turkey on twitter, read books and talk to real people. Before you mention Arnie the Terminator, no AI is truly autonomous. Somebody has programmed it, prompted it, directed it. And, by and large, if you pull the plug you can stop it. It’s people who start and stoke trouble. The heart of our problems will always be the fleshy hearts of people, not silicon in whatever form. 

Heroes, pedestals and worship...

It is perhaps remarkable that, as violent as the USA is today (both literally and metaphorically), there have been relatively few political assassinations in recent times. The same cannot be said of the 1960’s, a decade in which there were three key assassinations. In 1963 President John F. Kennedy was shot in Dallas, and five years later his brother, Robert F. Kennedy, was killed while on the campaign trail for the presidency. But just a few months previously Martin Luther King Jr had been assassinated in Memphis, Tennessee. John F had already made a global impact by the time of his election, having been a member of both the House and Senate (and publishing a Pulitzer prize-winning book) before winning the top job in 1960. His early death probably helped to preserve his reputation, despite his involving the US further in the Vietnam conflict (which would become so divisive later in the decade) and authorising a number of CIA capers in Cuba. King’s violent and tragic death, April 4^th, 1968 (he had already survived a stabbing in 1958), and his involvement in the Civil Rights movement in the US (which included the soaring rhetoric of his 1963 “I have a dream” speech) have also served to preserve his reputation. But biographers, or at least competent biographers, seek to describe their subject as completely as the evidence will allow. And in a review of a new biography of King, I was struck by the comment that “Heroes are defenceless against time’s erosion” (DeGroot’s review of “King”, by Jonathan Eig, The Times, 20/5/23).

All men, even great men, are men. Or, if you prefer a non-gendered version, all human beings are human beings. This is hardly an original or earth-shattering statement. Indeed, it is simply a restatement of what J.C. Ryle, first Bishop of Liverpool, observed back in the mid-19th century: “The best of men are only men at their very best”. In his “Expository thoughts on the Gospels” he was discussing the tendency to put prominent people on something of a pedestal, and perhaps by implication to “worship” them. Certainly to pay closer attention to them than was merited. This is not to argue that there aren’t those to whom attention should be paid, whether in science, the arts, politics or theology (or wherever your interest lie). There will be those who have technical expertise who should be listened to, whose insights should be appreciated and carefully considered. Hopefully the recent madness of despising experts because they are experts and believing the sage advice of those who have no expertise but opine anyway, has passed or at least is passing. There will be others who because of other experience will have something to contribute to a particular debate or discussion. But no-one is an expert in everything; even polymaths have blind spots and other limitations. This is why it is unwise to take too seriously the metaphysical prejudices of eminent natural scientists, who become eminent largely by knowing more about less. They are entitled to their metaphysical views (and they all have them). But their opinion should carry no more weight than those of other non-experts in metaphysics. So it is worth paying a certain amount of attention to what is being said on certain topics at a certain time over a certain range to certain people. But the topics and range will always have limits.

And this bring us to the problem of those occupying pedestals. For we tend to attribute to them an expertise that is way too broad, insight that is way more penetrating that is likely to be the case, and authority that they probably don’t want and are not capable of bearing. Eventually they will topple or be toppled leaving us with conundrums. What of their cause (if they have one)? Is that inevitably tainted by the discovery that the leader of that particular cause was flawed (although probably no more flawed than the rest of us)? King’s great cause was the end of racism, a time he anticipated when character would count for more than skin colour. That is surely a worthy, if yet unobtained, objective. This seems to be a cousin of the issue of separating an artist from his or her art. This last weekend a protester climbed on to a statue outside the BBC which was created by the sculptor Eric Gill, and attacked it with a hammer and chisel. The reason was that Gill, one of the towering figures in British sculpture in the first half of the 20^th century, was guilty of incest and child abuse. Meanwhile, on planet evangelical, yet another UK leader is currently being investigated over allegations of abuse of those under his influence, and a former Archbishop has been forced to step back from his ministry because of alleged mishandling of another abuse claim. Can you separate the man from his theology?

What has disappointed here is not speeches, sculpture or theology, but the particular human beings involved. Because it turned out (or it may turn out after investigation) that they were flawed. But then we all are. That’s why pedestals of whatever kind are dangerous. Those specimens of humanity who occupy them will almost inevitability disappoint on some level or another, at one time or another. And there is definitely a temporal aspect to this that means that the human and flawed reality will always catch up with even the greatest of human, pedestalled heroes. Which brings us back to what Ryle was actually discussing. Pedestals make for idolatry, because those who occupy them, whether by accident or design, are usurping someone who most definitely should be “up there”. It is precisely because this is how human beings are designed (to worship) that pedestals exist in the first place. But Ryle’s point was that there is someone the worship of whom is entirely appropriate. It turns out that perhaps the most examined life ever lived, examined both by His contemporaries and by many since, has yet to be found to be flawed in any respect. Ryle was discussing Matthew 17:1-13 (page 209 of the James Clark 1974 edition of his “Expository Thoughts on the Gospels”), and his focus was entirely on Jesus.

Here is someone worthy of hero worship. Because He is worthy of worship. 

A Bible fit for a King…...

When I was young I confess I was fairly cynical. But cynicism is easy when you’re young. Life is simple, and you have all the answers. And even if you don’t, you’re fairly sure that there are answers within easy reach. The fact that you have experienced nothing (or at least very little) of life’s complexities doesn’t give you pause. Now I am older. I have learned that even the simple things in life come with their complexities, so I try not to be cynical. Where others are concerned, whom I might have rushed to criticise in the past, I have learned that their motives and inner workings are closed to me. I can observe their behaviour and infer motives from that. But I am as likely to be wrong as I am to be right. Given that my own deepest motives are often opaque even to me, and given the common human capacity for self-deception, even when someone actually articulates their motives it is only prudent to treat them with a degree of respect and scepticism.

I also have to confess that as well as being a cynic, I was also a bit of an iconoclast, taking great delight in criticising cherished beliefs and institutions, particularity those of others. The institutions that I happened to like or admire (there are always some) were somehow immune to criticism. But when you have nothing invested in a particular institution (because of a lack of age or interest), one to which you have contributed nothing, why not throw few (metaphorical) rocks at it? What then was one to make of the events of today, Saturday 6th May, 2023 – the coronation of King Charles III?

First of all, it was a dramatic reminder that, for all its pretensions, the United Kingdom is not constituted as a secular state. A recent Guardian editorial fairly pointed out that “….modern Britain is not a holy nation. Nor is it even a largely Protestant one. Britain instead is increasingly secular….”. And yet this ceremony, the formal public recognition of our head of state as our head of state and King, and of his wife as our Queen, was a religious, indeed specifically a Christian, service. Hymns and anthems were sung, there were Bible readings, prayers were offered and there was a (short) sermon. At the heart of proceedings, the King was anointed with oil in a ritual lifted deliberately and knowingly from the Old Testament, and communion was celebrated. Less than half of the population may now identify as Christian, but apparently the state both thinks in such terms (if the “state” thinks), and wants to be seen in such terms. This presumably reflected the desires of the King, but it involved many other state actors. The Prime Minster, no less, a practising and for all I know an entirely sincere Hindu, read from Colossians 1:9-17.

But there is a problem. The Prime Minister does not believe that the words that he read are true. And it gets worse, for things were not entirely as they seem. Many other participants either explicitly or implicitly don’t believe much of what was read and sung either. Consider the Bible that was presented to the King. It was accompanied by the following words: “Receive this Book, the most valuable thing that this world affords. Here is Wisdom; this is the royal Law; these are the lively Oracles of God. More valuable than the gold about to be placed on his head is the word of God which shows us our failings and leads us to Christ.” The Christ in question is the one who, in the words read by the PM “is the image of the invisible God”. Such truth is now so hedged about with caveats and redefinitions by many of the clerical participants in today’s proceedings, that it has been emptied of much of its truth. As for Him being the “..firstborn from among the dead..” or the one in whom “the fullness of God was pleased to dwell”, this has become so mangled as to be meaningless. To have the current Archbishop of Canterbury and the Bishop of London recommend the Bible as the Word of God to the King added a certain irony to the proceedings, given how they are now viewed by the overwhelming majority (up to 85%) of the world Anglican communion. And at the centre of the debate within the Anglican communion is precisely the authority of the same book presented to the King.

Even the particular Bible presented by the Archbishop appears to be more about the look and ritual than substance. It turns out to be a specially commissioned copy of the edition prepared in 2011 for the 400^th anniversary of the production of the King James version of the Bible. But this rather goes out of its way to preserve not just the mistranslations inherent in the KJV, but about 350 misprints that were produced in the 1611 original. Of course, if the Bible is just a book, then none of this really matters. The misprints kind of take on a charm of their own. On cold nights in a draughty Royal palace, one can imagine “spot the misprint” becoming an entertaining diversion. But if the Bible is authoritative Scripture, indeed in the form of the autographs the very words of God, then accurate translation becomes an important issue. If not quite a matter of life or death (because God’s truth will out), perhaps not far off that. Fortunately, His Majesty has both the means and the intelligence to lay his hands on an improved translation should he wish to do so.

It is at this point that it would be fairly easy for my former cynicism and iconoclasm to manifest themselves. Except that much of what was said (and sung) in today’s ceremony was actually true, even although it is barely recognised as such. And to hear it at the centre of this national occasion is at least faintly heart-warming. It is in the Bible (as was said) that we learn that the King of Kings really did come to serve rather be served, and that this is a model for those in authority. If our King (and our politicians) were to take this to heart, this would be a major turning point for this nation. And the book the King was given is all that he was told it is. And more. For it has a power not confined by the inadequacies of those who were reading it publicly today. For all that we have had a couple of centuries of naive belief in the inevitability of human progress, and the development of multiple human philosophies that have sought to displace Bible truth and the God and Saviour it reveals, actual Truth was at the centre of today’s proceedings. 

Contained in a Bible that is fit for a King. And not just for the King.

Easter 2023: Welcome to the flip side….

Poor Matthew (Parris) doesn’t get it. I get why he doesn’t get it. And he isn’t alone. His problem is both relatively straightforward and relatively common. As Benjamin Franklin wrote in a letter to Jean-Baptiste Le Roy in 1789 “...in this world nothing can be said to be certain, except death and taxes” – and dead people stay dead. So I can forgive Matthew for being confused as to the significance of Jesus’ death. Writing in his Times column yesterday under the title “I’ll choose heroes before martyrs any day”, Matthew described Jesus as “the supreme example of a great man felled by midgets”. He was objecting to the notion that Jesus death proves or validates His teaching: “That Jesus was falsely accused and cruelly crucified does not make him a better man, or his teachings more true than if he had lived comfortably to ripe old age.. The depth of his suffering has no bearing on the validity of the Christian message..”. His basic thesis was that Jesus died a victim and His victimhood generated such sympathy that it prevented (and prevents) a proper analysis of what He taught. This rather implies that Jesus’ death was either a miscalculation or bad luck, but not in any way key to who He was or what He was seeking to do. But this indicates that Matthew has entirely missed the meaning and significance of Jesus’ death (for it has both). It is something that is easily done.

The reason he misses the point is that he is focussing on only half of the story. There’s lot about Jesus’ death that might make one rage (much as I was doing on Friday). At a minimum it certainly came as a huge disappointment to His earliest followers. But if Jesus simply died, coming to a horrible end, that could not possibly validate His message (to this extent I agree with Matthew). In fact it would convincingly invalidate His message. If He was merely a victim, He could be no example. For on its own, His death would proves nothing beyond Him being either a fool or a liar. Who would want to follow either? This is because He Himself was very clear about the place and circumstances of His death, and spoke about them repeatedly. But He also insisted that His death would not be the end. His original audience either did not hear Him, did not understand Him or did not believe Him. That inner group of disciples, so traumatised by the events of “good” Friday, were every bit as incapable as Matthew at putting it all together. They were so sure that dead people stay dead, and Jesus was certainly dead. So that was that. But then they should also have known that this is not entirely true. Among their wider number was a man called Lazarus. Lazarus had died, but Jesus had raised Him from the dead. You would have thought that this might have caused them to pause and ponder when a number of women reported to them that Jesus tomb was empty on the Sunday morning following Jesus’ Friday death, and that they had been told that the reason the tomb was empty was that Jesus was alive.

We are able to gain bit of an insight into the thought process (or rather the lack of thereof) going on inside the heads of the first Christians that particular Sunday. Luke records a conversation that two of them had with a seemingly ignorant stranger, as they trudged, depressed, from Jerusalem to the village of Emmaus (Luke 24:13-35). They had placed their hopes in Jesus, but these had been dashed by His death. So certain were they that His death had marked the end of those hopes, that they had totally discounted clear evidence that something remarkable had happened. They had heard the report of the women that Jesus’ tomb was empty. And they knew that this was not wishful thinking on the womens’ part, because it had been confirmed by others (i.e. men). They knew that the same demonstrably reliable witnesses (the women) who had reported the empty tomb also claimed to have been told that Jesus was alive. But of course that was ridiculous. Perhaps what might have swayed them was the evidence of their own eyes. If they themselves could have seen Jesus then they would believe. Indeed that would transform the whole situation. This is a common misconception. Because, as it turned out, they could see Jesus. Indeed they were talking to Him; He was the seemingly ignorant stranger they were talking to.

To cut the story short (you can read it for yourself in Luke 24) eventually they recognise the risen Jesus. The rest, as they say, is quite literally history. Jesus alive transforms everything. Now His death is not a tragic miscalculation, nor is it the triumph of midgets and lesser men over a great man. In fact His death is demonstrated not to be the death of just a man at all. But it is His resurrection that validates His own claims, that He did not lose His life but gave it. He died not as a victim, having had death imposed upon Him (by either men or God), but as a willing substitute and sacrifice. His death is not unimportant (merely the prelude to resurrection), but He stresses twice that it was a necessary means through which he accomplishes what had been set for Him, prior to returning to the glory that had always been His. His resurrection demonstrates that He was not at all just another good man and religious teacher from whom we might learn useful things. His resurrection demonstrated that He was uniquely the God-man who had pioneered the way by which death could be overcome for all those who would trust and follow Him. His resurrection is the flip side of the story of his death that Matthew either misses or, perhaps more likely, dismisses.

Because it just can’t be true. Except, of course, it is. All the evidence is there. But then, as the two on their way to Emmaus demonstrate, it is not now, nor has it ever really been, a matter of evidence, of knowing stuff. It’s about recognising Him.

Easter 2023: How come the world still spins?

The death of a child, a spouse, a parent, comes as a shattering blow. It is one that I haven’t experienced personally yet but I know that one day I will. However, what I have observed in others is the way their world just stops. And then complete incomprehension: why hasn’t it stopped for everyone else? Do they not know what’s happened? Are they simply unaware? Or do they not care? How can this be? And so it goes on. It would be less than human if such a loss did not induce, at least for an instant, anger, compounding the grief. But then the death of any particular individual will not be known to the vast bulk of humanity. And consider the numbers involved; it is estimated that just over one hundred people die every moment of every day. It is a tragedy that not every single one will be mourned – there have always been those who die alone and unknown. But many will be mourned, and there will be those who grieve. For those impacted there will always be that question: How can your world continue to spin when mine has come to a shuddering halt?

I found myself wondering about this at church this morning. Although it is a Friday, it is “good” Friday, hence I was in church. Some other time perhaps I will investigate why this particular day on which we remember Jesus giving up His life in appalling circumstances is called “good” (here’s what I came up with previously). So much about that day is grotesque. The injustice of it. Jesus is declared innocent by His human judge, the Roman governor Pilate, three times in quick succession. The case brought against Him collapses under the weight of its own absurdity. One of His two fellow accused, a thief, recognises that while two of the three of them that day were being justly punished (albeit by crucifixion), Jesus had done nothing deserving death. Even His Roman executioner comes to appreciate something of Jesus’ uniqueness (albeit after the event). And yet, there He hangs, there He suffers, there He dies.

I want to explode. I want to point an accusing finger at those limp, wet disciples, and shout: how could you? Judas betrayed Him the previous evening, and Peter had repeatedly denied Him. The rest of the little band of His closest disciples had scattered. Only some women (including His mother) and John are left to watch Him die. He had invested years in a core group of twelve, patiently, painstakingly, teaching and shaping them, feeding them and occasionally rescuing them. They had heard amazing words, they had seen amazing things. And now, outrageously, they are nowhere to be seen, just when you think He might need them most. More startling still is Jesus’ restraint. When Judas and a mob arrived in a garden where Jesus had been praying to arrest Him, a fight had almost broken out. Violence started, but was stopped just as quickly by Jesus Himself. Could He have escaped if He’d let Peter and the rest “get stuck in”? Perhaps. Did He need their assistance? He certainly didn’t want it. But consider. He’d calmed storms, fed thousands and raised the dead! He could have snuffed out the very existence of those who now laid their hands on Him. And yet He didn’t. My immediate response is to ask: why didn’t you? Why didn’t you stand up to such obvious injustice? Why didn’t you make the likes of Judas and the rest pay there and then? I would have.

If I’m confused by Jesus' response, I’m stunned by God the Father who had spoken of His love for, and His pleasure in, His Son. I know that the incarnation takes us to the edge of, and well beyond, human understanding; how can one person be both God and man? But the claims made by Jesus are clear. He had willingly come from the Father’s side, at the Father’s behest, something long planned. Just as the Father took pleasure in the Son, so the Son sought to please the Father. And yet this Father watches this Son unjustly defamed and abused. Part of me me wants to cry out: how could you? Never mind stopping the world spinning, I wonder why God didn’t rip the earth from its axis and hurl it like a discarded marble across the galaxy. He is God after all, and this is His Son being abused and insulted.

As if all of that isn’t bad (or confusing) enough, as Jesus hangs on a cross, the Father apparently abandons His Son, who cries out in agony because this abandonment is so excruciating. And this only part of what is going on; things that those original observers could see, hear and infer. There are those things transpiring that are unseen and so extraordinary that if God Himself had not revealed what was really going on, one would hesitate even to hint at it. It is Paul who writes in 2 Corinthians 5:21: “For our sake he [God] made him [Jesus] to be sin who knew no sin...”. Why? Part of me is outraged at how unfair this all is. How are we to understand it?

But neither my understanding or my feelings are of much interest. My perspective isn’t the one that matters. God is God, He is not me and He is not like me. In fact He is so unlike me (and you) that the very words that we use, human words, cannot communicate accuracy the fullness of what He is like, even if we could understand what He is like in the first place. We mustn’t slip into the misunderstanding that God is just like us, but bigger. He’s not; He is of a completely different order of being. But because we cannot know everything about Him, does not mean we can know nothing. That’s because He has revealed Himself using human language and images that we can understand. Why did He restrain Himself when His Son was brutally taken and crucified by mere creatures? Because this was the means by which that very rebellion could, in justice, be forgiven by God who is just. Breathtakingly, the world still spins on its axis, not because He is somehow indifferent and doesn’t care or love, but precisely because He does. And He does so with a perfect passion unlike anything that is ever true of us. So he watches as He had always watched, because as He is outside of time, the death of His Son has been and is always before Him.

Part of our problem is that we are time-bound and temporal; for us time is linear. Although this story isn’t over, and our picture is incomplete, we’ll have to ponder and wait until Sunday. Then we’ll learn why the world kept, and keeps, on spinning.

Easter 2023: The calm between storms…..

It is unclear what Jesus and His disciples did during the middle of what has come to be called “Holy Week”. In part this is because ancient writers were not as obsessed by high resolution chronologies and itineraries as were are today. But it is possible to work out what happened during most of that particular week.

At the beginning of the week, on the Sunday as we would say, Jesus had entered Jerusalem in the most public manner, riding on a young donkey. He was arriving in a manner which had all sorts of resonances for those who knew their Old Testament. The people of the day came out in force. The Gospel writers record crowds welcoming Him, with waving palm branches and shouts that would have further wound up Jesus’ enemies in the religious establishment of the day. They had been after Him for while, necessitating Jesus avoiding Jerusalem and Judea at one point in His ministry. But apparently no longer. Knowing exactly what they were up to, He heads to what they assumed to be their seat of power. Some of them, particular Pharisees who were still on speaking terms with Him, asked Him to calm some of His more enthusiastic admirers. He politely declined.

He came not just to Jerusalem, but right to the temple in Jerusalem. Then as now, the temple was as much a powder keg as place of worship, it was political as much as spiritual. Jesus had been there before of course, but this time was different. The temple had become a hub of (probably not very honest) commerce, and Jesus wasn’t having it. He drove out animals that were being sold for use in the temple services as sacrifices, and overturned the tables at the “bureau de change”. This no doubt annoyed those with a financial interest, but it was the last straw for His religious opponents. They now looked for a way to “destroy” Him. These were not the actions of man looking for a quiet life, nor those of someone being driven by events. These were the actions of someone who knew exactly what was going on, who knew what was going to happen; He was driving events.

So by midweek, maybe they all just needed to rest up. They probably found a degree of peace and quiet in Bethany, perhaps at the home of Lazarus, Martha and Mary. A rest would have been a good idea for the disciples. It gave them a chance to contemplate the things Jesus had been saying, as well as the strange case of the withered fig tree. There would be lot’s more to think about. While those who were out to get Jesus plotted and schemed, He would continue to teach in and around the temple. At the end of the week, when they all came together for their Passover celebration, He would teach just the inner group of disciples in the most intimate of settings (what we know as “the Last Supper”). What is clear throughout is that Jesus knows that events are unfolding to a timetable. Although uninterested in the kind of chronology of hours, minutes and seconds that tends to obsess us, there was another chronology that was being followed.

One of the striking features of John’s account of these events are the continuing references to time. In fact John structures the first chapter and a bit of his Gospel around a sequence of seven or so days. This is a clue that time is going to play an important role in his recounting of events. Early on, he records Jesus as saying “...my hour has not yet come” (John 2:4). The time not being right will be mentioned again (7:30; 8:20), and then in the week in question the language changes. Early in the week Jesus says “Now my soul is troubled, and what shall I say? ‘Father, save me from this hour’? No, it was for this very reason I came to this hour.” (John 12:27). By the end of the week He will know “this hour” is about to arrive, indeed arrive within literal hours. He knew what time it was. He had always known.

So midweek, with a number of momentous events behind Him, and knowing what lay ahead, perhaps there was some time to pause. Was it frustrating to watch the disciples just going about, apparently missing almost entirely the significance of what was was happening and what they were seeing and hearing? We don’t know. I hope not. Because that’s me a lot of the time even now. They didn’t get it as it was happening, no matter how explicit He had been (and He had been fairly explicit). But they would after the event, although admittedly with Divine help.

Knowing that here and now, midweek, prior to all that will be said and sung this coming weekend for us, perhaps a pause to draw breath and prepare for what’s to come is no bad idea.