Easter retuning…..

We all perceive through filters. While this has a specific technical meaning, the technicalities needn’t detain us for too long; the general point is easily understood. Take vision (or seeing) as an example. Technically, because our visual system is designed to work in a particular visual environment (or if you prefer, it evolved in a particular context), it has assumptions built into its structure. Another way of saying this is that visual information comes to us through a number of filtered channels. Provided these remain appropriate, everything works fairly well and we can see what we need to see to do the things we have to do. Of course, in order to tease out exactly how this all works, sneaky scientists find ways of tweaking the circumstances in which a participant's visual system has to work (‘tweaked circumstances’ is essentially what an experiment is) to trip it up. This, it turns out, is not hard; it is the basis of visual illusions – stimuli that induce misperceptions. You can find lots online with which you can fool your own visual system. Personally, I rather like the “change blindness” phenomenon (although technically this is more an attentional than visual type of illusion). You can find a classic example here; see if you can spot what is changing as photographs are presented to you. If you can’t work it out (most people do eventually), the answer is at the end of this post. The general point is that we easily miss things that are different from our usual experience and expectations, that violate the assumptions we inevitably make about what is going on around us. Rather, we tend to assume that we are very aware of everything that is going on around us, and certainly that if anything important was going on, we’d certainly notice it.

Not surprisingly, what applies at the relatively low level of perception also occurs in different, arguably more complicated, contexts. Consider all that Peter and the other disciples of Jesus of Nazareth had seen and heard as they followed Jesus all over first century Palestine. Let’s take the shortest of the Gospel accounts of the experience they accumulated over a period of about three years, the one composed by Mark. Early on they are sufficiently impressed by Jesus and what he has to say to respond positively when he calls them to follow him. It’s unclear what they thought they were getting themselves into. Perhaps a private club or religious society? Perhaps they initially hoped that this would eventually develop into a larger popular movement of national revival. And yet from the outset this was a rather strange grouping (particularly in its membership), being told strange things by Jesus. They heard and saw Jesus’ explicit and implicit claims to be God! He claimed to be able to forgive sin and claimed authority over their holy day, the Sabbath. In a wilderness setting, just like the one they would remember from their national history as recorded in Exodus, he did the impossible and provided bread for thousands, something their history told them God had uniquely done in the past. Jesus healed the excluded and delivered the spiritually enslaved. He even restored the nearly and newly dead, as well as raised the thoroughly dead. What did they make of this? Not much at the time is probably the answer, as they, along with the crowds that Jesus often encountered, reacted in astonishment time after time. Much of what Jesus was saying and doing seems to have been as foreign to them, as out of kilter with their usual daily experience, as it is to ours.

But as well as publicly observable demonstrations and teaching, the disciples had personal time with Jesus that was way beyond what was accessible to the crowds. They could, and did, ask questions and for explanations. Jesus went out of his way to explain to them what he was saying, and indeed describe what was going to happen to him before it happened. Three times in Mark, and at particular points, he explains that he is going to be rejected, abused and killed, and that he was going to rise from the dead. Mark records that particularly this last point was completely lost on the disciples. It obviously was not to be taken literally; Jesus could not mean that having ceased to be alive he would return to life in any real sense. Like us, they understood the basic realities of life and death, how the universe worked – we live and we die, end of. There might be notions of some sort of existence after the point of death, but that was a matter of philosophy or complicated theology; it belonged with talk of spirits and collective memorialising of the dead. It wasn’t a real sort of thing, at least not really real. So, obviously Jesus had to be dealing in metaphors and pictures. But what could they mean? Eventually, as Jesus became ever more explicit about both his impending death and his rising from the dead, the disciples just stopped asking him what he meant.

So what were their expectations as they eventually arrived in Jerusalem, the location where Jesus had been telling them he would die and rise again? Perhaps they were swept up in the excitement of the welcoming crowds who thought they knew exactly what Jesus was about. Perhaps they hoped that Jesus’ talk of rejection and death was just that, talk. Things seemed to be on a more promising track. Here they were in at the religious and civil heart of their people, and it seemed Jesus was indeed about to lead a popular movement, with perhaps the disciples playing the role of trusted lieutenants. But then Jesus goes and messes it up. He seems to go out of his way to outrage the religious and civil authorities. In an apparently monumental miscalculation he even turns one of his own intimate circle against himself, such that one of his followers called Judas is prepared to conspire with the authorities to have Jesus arrested. The rest, as they say, is history. Perhaps you have been rehearsing some of it today on “Good Friday”. The tragic end to a promising beginning. And yet, had they really listened they might have known that things were not as they seemed. This was not a tragedy unfolding, not an ending, and more of a continuation than a beginning.

But then what was going on was so beyond their experience and expectations that inevitably they were no more able to understand it than we are today without external intervention. Their filters were on the wrong setting as it were. Their starting assumptions were wrong. And still today there is something about the way we are constituted that makes it hard to see and hear what's going on with Jesus. Even if we think it is worth trying to, it is hard to get beyond the mere rehearsal of historical events to a transforming understanding of the what and the why of his death in those appalling circumstances of rejection, betrayal, mockery, abuse, suffering and death. Fortunately the same help is available to us as would eventually allow Jesus’ first disciples (or at least eleven of them) to process the raw material of what they had seen and heard and understand what was going on. It takes nothing less than God himself, through his own word, by means of his own Spirit, to cut through our natural way of thinking and the expectations it generates, to retune our filters, so we can know, understand and respond to Jesus. Fortunately for us, he has always been happy to do exactly this. Just try asking.

And if you still don't get what changing in the 'change blindness' demo, pay attention to the engine under the wing of the aircraft in the pictures. Imagine not seeing that!

It’s (as yet) all Greek to me

I’ve mentioned my studies a couple of times (see here and here). Alas, formally they are now over. I say alas because I have really enjoyed all of the process, content and, as it happens, the outcome. Perhaps it’s the academic in me. So, next summer, all being well, I shall graduate from Union. However, for tactical reasons I managed to avoid serious engagement with the original languages in which the Bible is written (primarily Hebrew and Greek). This was tactical because at my relatively advanced age learning a new language in the time available, essentially from scratch, would have been a big ask. I have picked up occasional words in both Hebrew and Greek in my MTh studies, and over the years from commentaries and articles. But I have no real understanding of the grammar of the languages, and the actual number of words I am familiar with you could probably count on the fingers of two hands and plus the toes of one foot. Given the time and assessment constraints in the MTh, there were lots of other things I wanted to study and (whisper it) I wanted to pass well. Still, this avoidance has led to the occasional pang of guilt. So with the MTh now complete, I have embarked on learning New Testament Greek with the help of some of Union's learning resources (which I still have access to as a current student). I hope to be of a suitable standard by graduation to contemplate taking some of the language modules on a “stand-alone” basis next session.

But why bother you might ask? After all, I actually believe in what is often called the doctrine of Scripture’s perspicuity. “Perspicuity” is to the contemporary mind a very opaque word meaning “clarity”. While “All things in Scripture are not alike plain in themselves…” (to quote the Westminster Confession, 1.7), the really important things, like how God can be truly known, is so clearly taught that “not only the learned, but the unlearned, in a due use of the ordinary means, may attain unto a sufficient understanding of them.” “Ordinary means” in this context is the reading and teaching of Scripture in our vernacular languages (ie in translation). This was a major point of contention in the Reformation and for a recent book-length defence of this position Mark Thompson’s “A Clear and Present Word” is worth a read. But it is not that there is a central kernel that can be generally understood, surrounded by lots of really hard stuff that should be left to “experts” (whatever that means). In the Old Testament, Israel was told to teach what God had revealed to their children (Deuteronomy 6:7) and it is emphasised that this is a far from impossible task; in general God’s words are both understandable and doable (Deuteronomy 30:11-14). In the New Testament, much of Jesus’ teaching is remarkably clear and straightforward. It’s not that the semantic content of both Jesus’ teaching and the rest of the New Testament, the words and concepts, are hard to understand. The real problem lies elsewhere. The very fist step to understanding is not essentially intellectual but spiritual, more about the heart than the mind. You can get an idea of what I mean by reading Ephesians 2:1-3. Ask yourself what the dead are capable of.

When God by His Spirit brings life where there was only death, and throws that switch that brings light where before there was darkness (akin to Jesus’ healings of the blind), the Bible comes alive in whatever language you happen to normally operate in. It remains God’s word and provides more than enough to keep any one of us going for more than a lifetime. Why, then, a need to get into the weeds of the original (or near to the original) Greek? Because they are not weeds and there is always more, layer after layer of nerve jangling, mind-stretching truth. But here are some immediate reasons. All translation involves interpretation. So the Bible translations that I use rely on the interpretations of others. Usually these are fine; no text can mean anything (something that the more extreme post-modernists got disastrously wrong) and only occasionally do different translations diverge significantly. But to be able to see where and why the divergence in English comes about, strikes me as valuable. And of course some divergent interpretations are occasionally based on a particular asserted meaning of the original text. To be able to go and check that there hasn’t been some twisting of the original, or that some linguistic fallacy isn’t being perpetrated (for a number of these see Don Carson’s “Exegetical Fallacies”), is also valuable. Then there is the pleasure of eventually being able to almost see into the mind of John and compare it with Paul, to develop a feel for their individual writing style. All of these seem to me to be real incentives for doing what will be hard work over an extended period.

So I’m currently on the initial slopes of the foothills. Some are quite steep. Others seem to be going on for quite a distance. My progress is sometimes slower than I would like. But the journey is a worthwhile one, and the view from the top will be glorious.

"Of the making of books......"

A new year, and a new pile of books has appeared (as if by magic). It is just a little pile for the moment. One of them is part of a longer term project and I won’t really be able to tackle it properly for a while, but I was being pushed for Christmas present suggestions. Another is a holdover from 2023 which I’ve nearly finished reading. The rest are the “next” in the queue to be read. I get the feeling that the writer of Ecclesiastes was a bit ambivalent abut books, even at a time when there were far fewer of them about (see what he has to say about them in Ecc 12:12). These days all sorts of things get published. Just because something appears in a book (or is published in a journal as I used to stress to students) doesn’t guarantee good sense, wisdom or helpfulness. But I’m reasonably hopeful this pile will get my reading year off to a good start.

At the bottom of the pile is the Tyndale House Greek New Testament (Reader’s Edition, published by Crossway). Foundational to reading, and more importantly to understanding, is what God has to say. He sets the agenda and provides the framework. God is a speaking God, and although not knowable apart from his revelation of himself, what he says is understandable in any language. We all think using a framework that consists of a cloud of background assumptions and commonplaces. It’s important to know where it comes from. I want mine to depend on what God has said in his word, the Bible. What was written by the human authors of the Bible was obviously written down in a language other than English. However, it looses none of its power when translated, whether into English or any other language. This was a major bone of contention at the time of the Reformation, although the issue was really who had the authority to interpret Scripture. Ordinary believers were claimed not to be able or allowed to interpret it for themselves, so why let them read it in their own language? There is also a contrast here with Islam. The Koran only carries authority when read and cited in Arabic. As Pickthall wrote of his own English translation “The Quran cannot be translated. [This] is only an attempt to present the meaning of the Quran … in English. It can never take the place of the Quran in Arabic, nor is it meant to do so.”

So why bother learning New Testament Greek? Because not everything is equally clear and straightforward as the New Testament itself says (e.g. see 2 Peter 3:16), and all translation involves a degree of interpretation. To get into the mind of the writers in their own language is to gain a useful new perspective. Therefore, rather later than I probably should have, I’ve embarked on learning New Testament Greek. It won’t be a quick or easy process. But I hope to have completed the basics over the next eight months or so, and then there’s the possibility of progressing to some of the language modules offered by Union where I did my MTh. Perhaps by the year’s end, I’ll be able to read the odd verse here or there.

The holdover is Barclay’s “Paul & the Gift”; I started it last month (i.e. last year). It takes a bit of reading and illustrates why getting on top of NT Greek can be so useful. Barclay explores Paul’s use of the idea of a gift (linked with concepts like grace and mercy). You might wonder why this is needed given that the writing in question has been around for two thousand years or so. My view is that the big picture is fairly clear and easily understood. In my natural state I cannot work my way into acceptability with a God who is perfect, holy and just. But neither can he just “let me off” as an act of “simple” mercy – that would be outrageously unjust; he would become something less than he is. And if he just lets me off, what about you? That looks suspiciously capricious as well as unjust. So instead he does something daring in the extreme not to say surprising. He takes my punishment on himself (in the person of Jesus) and then he lets me off. Turns out it is simple. But then again it isn’t really. This leaves all sorts of issues hanging. Some of the complications are to do with how Paul discusses all of this especially in his letters to the Romans and the Galatians (hence the usefulness of the Greek, which Barclay quotes and discusses in detail). Some of the issues are to do with how Paul’s writing relates to the Judaism of his day, and how this is to be understood (something that changes from time to time). And some of it has to do with the ways we think today about gift and grace, which turns out to be different to what these things meant in the ancient world. All well worth exploring in more detail, which Barclay certainly does.

Sounds a bit heavy. Much shorter is Peter Williams “The Surprising Genius of Jesus” which is primarily a look at what is commonly called the “parable of the prodigal”. Williams, now principal of Tyndale House, was involved in producing the Greek NT I’m looking forward to being able to read, and is an expert in Greek (and other things). So this will again be about the specifics of the language Jesus uses and how he tunes it to the precise context of his original audience. William's point is that this is done with such skill that Jesus demonstrates not just the genius of an expert story teller but the genius of the original author; he is of course both.

I have some philosophy/philosophical theology in my pile In the form of Plantinga’s “Knowledge and Christian Belief” and Tyson’s “A Christian Theology of Science” (which I mentioned briefly previously). How do we know what we think we know? Plantinga is perhaps best known for his book “Warranted Christian Knowledge”, but the book in my pile is later, shorter and perhaps an easier read. No doubt to the bemusement of that rarest of beasts the “new atheist”, Christian belief (along with lots of other wild and wacky stuff) is potentially respectable again. This may be the product of a culture that has privatised belief and elevated the principle of tolerance to totemic status. If sincerely held belief is beyond criticism (at least when privately held and not inflicted on others), then this must apply to Christian beliefs. Where such beliefs raise their head in public, say in academic debate, they should be given a polite hearing, if only to be dismissed as just someone else’s “truth”. Tyson seeks to give priority to Christian belief (or at least theology) over even science. That this should be at all entertained is very different to the attitudes I was exposed to as a student forty years ago. It was taken for granted that progress, particularly in science, meant we could dispense with certain types of belief which were only for the weak-minded. How things have changed, at least superficially.

Some history next: a two volume biography of Selina, the Countess of Huntingdon (obtained from the excellent Kernaghan's bookshop) and Richard Turnbull’s biography of Shaftesbury (“Shaftesbury: The Great Reformer”). Selina was an influential participant in the “Great Awakening” of the eighteenth century. Although almost forgotten now, she was one of the great supporters of George Whitefield and a number of other prominent preachers. What the Awakening achieved is disputed by historians, but arguably is saved Great Britain from the kind of revolution that afflicted France at the end of the eighteenth century, and laid the basis for major social reforms in the nineteenth. Some of these were implemented by Shaftesbury, hence the idea of reading about the two together. I confess that I’m looking forward to these as “light relief” meaning no disrespect to their authors. I love reading history and had the privilege of studying the history and theology of evangelicalism with Richard Turnbull not that long ago. He was kind enough to give us his copies of his book, so I’ve felt morally obliged to read it for a while. I’m sure it will be a treat.

Finally on the pile is John Wyatt’s account of his friendship with John Stott (“Transforming Friendship”). John Stott was probably almost as influential as Shaftesbury but at a very different time and in a very different way. I was attracted to this book because at its heart is a friendship, the topic of my dissertation. That was dry, clipped, academic, referenced – it was theory. Wyatt’s book is of interest because it is about personal practicality. An interesting contrast.

So, these are the books that make up my initial pile for 2024. Looks like a good reading year already.

The blogging year…

So, here we are. The last day of 2023. It’s been a year of 21 blog posts not counting this one. And although I confess it is a bit indulgent, this seems like a good time to review them. They cover an eclectic bunch of topics, as you might expect from the summary that follows this blog’s title: “Not quite a science blog, not quite a Bible blog, not quite a politics or family blog. Just a box into which almost anything might be thrown.” If you’ve read much of it, you can decide for yourself whether it’s been “worth a rummage in”.

Back in February (was it really only ten months ago?) I was sitting on a train from Glasgow to Edinburgh when I heard that Nicola Sturgeon had resigned. If you’re not a Scot, or don’t live in Scotland (or if you hail from almost anywhere in the US) you probably won’t understand why for many us this was a “Kennedy” moment. Of course, not only my train has moved on. Since then Nicola has been investigated and arrested (although not charged) over financial irregularities in her party, leading to undisguised glee in unionist circles, and a bit of hand-wringing amongst the nationalists in my homeland (although probably not as much as there should have been). She was of course replaced by Scotland's first Muslim “First Minister”, after an interesting SNP leadership campaign. It was interesting because it revealed once again that it is acceptable to be almost anything in politics other than a Christian who takes their faith seriously, and that for the modern UK media Christianity is rather poorly understood (see "Tolerance and the public square"). Despite religion in general playing an ever more important role in most of the world, in the UK media we still don’t “do God” very well.

We do of course do politics. We had a lot of it in 2022, but we’ve only had one Prime Minister for the whole of 2023! By and large there’s been less turmoil, which is just as well given the scale of the problems that the politicians have had to grapple with. The war in Ukraine compounded the economic shocks of the pandemic (remember that?) leading to real hardship for many families. Government did a bit (not enough for many, not the right things for others), but at the end of 2023 finds itself facing a crushing defeat in the polls in 2024. The only question appears to be how crushing? I do have the occasional twinge of sympathy for our current PM (Rishi Sunak), but then he goes and trails some potty policy to see off a threat (real or imagined) from the right wing of his party or even the right wing of the right wing. Meanwhile the Labour Party has become at least worthy of consideration as an alternative government because it has dealt with its crazy left wing. For some in Labour this about betrayal and backstabbing and the claim is that if their current leader Keir Starmer stands for anything, nobody knows what it is. But this is always the accusation laid at the door of the opposition (even by some on the same side). The time to judge will come perhaps as early as Spring 2024 when the two main parties set out their stalls. But what will perhaps be more interesting will the tone as much as the substance of the next UK general election. We like a good argument, and there are always accusations of lies and media bias. But these are usually peripheral rather than central. Argument had, election over, we get on with life. Whoever wins the election, we probably won’t have any nonsense about it being stolen, with everyone running to the courts. We are likely to be spared at least that fate.

On this side of the Atlantic our constitution, unwritten as it is, has always been about more than politics (just as well you might mutter under your breath). We officially obtained a new head of state in 2023, thanks to the coronation of King Charles III. Despite various fictitious versions of both royal history (courtesy of Netflix) and more recent royal shenanigans (courtesy of Charles’ youngest son), the reality has been steady and, as far as one can tell from the far distance, fairly sure. The coronation certainly got things off to an impressive start. And unlike our media, and most of our politicians, Charles is a profoundly religiously literate man. Given the recent apparent surge in both antisemitic and anti-Islamic crimes (the out-working on British streets of events in Israel and Gaza), having a head of state who is broadly respected by different communities can be no bad thing. Of course, even if Charles possessed the wisdom of Solomon, he would be taxed to breaking point by developments in the church of which he is the “Supreme Governor” – the Church of England. Its leadership has decided to make a fairly startling break with what it is signed up to protect and teach, changing their basic doctrine while denying that they are doing any such thing. While usually what happens is that the very heterogenous theological views that comprise the C of E find some way of remaining in a more-or-less working relationship, perhaps not this time. More will be revealed in the year ahead.

At the heart of that particular tussle is theology (for once), which is of course now “my thing”. I attended my first theological conference at the start of 2023, and thoroughly enjoyed it. Not that theology, at least in its academic form, is uniformly impressive (as I discussed back in July). But I’ve really enjoyed two years of study with Union School of Theology, completing my Masters dissertation (which you can read here if you're so inclined) back in September. Graduation next summer will, I hope, be a highlight of 2024. But the study doesn’t stop. One of my Christmas presents was the Greek New Testament. So 2024 will be full of declensions and tenses as I work to get the point where I can begin to read the New Testament’s human authors in their original language. Of course, God’s word is not bound by language, and you can hear what the Divine Author has to say just as well in English translation.

And what of my former “thing” science? Well, as an institution it’s been struggling a bit as I blogged in September and November. Some of this is the cumulative impact of a culture that has long maintained that there is no such thing as truth, perhaps combined with the impact of the post-modern view that the claim that there is a truth with demands everyone's assent is an illegitimate power game. So we now live surrounded by a morass of relativism and conspiracy, when even something as basic as the sexual dimorphism of humanity is flatly denied. In this atmosphere, when scientists make mistakes, or perpetrate outright fraud (which still happens relatively rarely), this is jumped on to show that, like every other human activity, science is flawed. The difficulty is that this is of course true, to the extent that science is a human activity with all that this implies. And yet it remains the best way, bar none, for answering certain kinds of questions – questions about what “is”. For questions about what “ought to be”, well for that we have theology (other humanities disciplines are available).

So there you have it. That’s the 22^nd and final blog post of 2023. Now, what will take my fancy next year?

My new car has a dent in it….

Tis the season of stuff. Much of it will be welcome stuff - presents we’ve been looking forward to, perhaps that we requested or hinted at. Anticipation was increased by seeing them (or what we hoped was them), wrapped in fancy paper, sitting, waiting under a Christmas tree (maybe for weeks in the more organized households). And then it arrived - Christmas day. We got to tear away the wrapping paper to reveal… whatever. How long will or has the satisfaction of finally getting our hands on a much-anticipated present last? Did it live up to its billing? Perhaps. However, as I learned recently (or perhaps re-learned) we should be careful how we regard stuff.

A few months ago, we decided to replace our ageing car. It had been reliable for a long time (about thirteen years in fact) but was at that stage where it was starting to cost more to maintain and keep roadworthy than it was actually worth. We were in the fortunate position of being able to go to a dealership and pick a new (smaller) car. Eventually we plumped for a dark blue, sporty hatchback. It had some of the latest gizmos and gadgets. So now it bleeps when I reverse too close towards the much more expensive SUV parked behind us in the street outside our house. When on long journeys it nags us about the need to take breaks and drink coffee. Because it has sporty seats and natty red trim in various prominent places internally, one of our friends has taken our purchase as evidence of a mid-life crisis on my part. Whatever it is, this it cannot be as I am no longer in mid-life.

However, like everything else, our shiny new car is not immune to damage and degradation, whether accidental or malicious. We’ve already had a flat tyre that needed replacing. Interestingly, the combination of an actual flat and large alloy wheel rims had us constantly looking at our wheels and asking if we’d got another flat. It turned out that it is disconcertingly difficult to tell. But for the most part the car has sat outside our house, all shiny and new (complete with that “new car” smell). A delight to behold (and smell). And then it wasn’t. In a church car park of all places, what we presume was another car door was flung open with sufficient force to put a small but deep dent in one of our doors. One would hardly notice the dent on casual, uninterested inspection. The problem is that my observation of my shiny new car is neither casual nor uninterested. Because I know where the blemish is, my eye is attracted to it automatically, almost magnetically. Mechanically the car is fine, and still drives like a dream. It still has the natty red trim inside, and the gizmos all still work. And there’s even still a faint whiff of “new car” inside (although that may by now just be my imagination). But it is now blemished and therefore somehow less. What is disconcerting is that I care quite so much. And thereby hangs a tale and a moral.

Stuff, it turns out, is not neutral; it is sticky. We get overly attached to it. Admittedly cars are quite large and expensive items (even small ones). But much smaller bits of stuff can be quite as sticky as large objects, and exert a remarkable pull. And, as with my mechanically sound although marked car, this is about much more than the utility of the object in question. It seems to be some property of the stuff itself and how we relate to it. After all there are plenty of cars driving around with dents in them about which I care not a jot. It is this particular car that, it turns out, has an amazing ability to discombobulate me, presumably because it’s mine. Yet cars (phones, rings, boats, pens, computers etc) are not people. We might have a relationship of sorts with stuff (some people name their cars, never mind their pets), but it falls some way short of the relationships that should matter to us; those with spouses, children, parents and friends, even colleagues, bosses, employees. People should matter more than stuff.

Of course sometimes we use stuff to symbolize our relationships. I suppose this is what Christmas gifts (ie the stuff we give each other at Christmas) are really about. But in a way the stuff itself should be relatively unimportant. This explains why even stuff that has little monetary value can still be of great worth, if it serves as a sign and symbol of an important relationship. All well and good. But what a tragedy when the stuff, even gifted stuff, comes to matter more than it should. Even worse, when it is mistaken for the relationship that it is supposed to signify, or valued more than those relationships that should matter to us. When the stuff receives the attention that the giver of the gift should receive. This is to confuse signs and things signified. Because stuff inevitably becomes notably less shiny with time, not to mention when it gets dented, to be obsessed with it is also to miss so much of what really matters. And yet stuff, the obtaining of it, the possession of it, can do this to us. Warping our perception of what, or rather who, should be valued.

Consider one more intriguing observation. The greatest gift that was ever given was not stuff at all, but a person; a someone to be known not a something to be had. That is, when all is said and done, what (or rather who) lies at the heart of Christmas. Enjoy your presents.

I’ve decided to try and be constructive rather than just rant, even although the temptation to rant has been with me since mid-September. That’s when, once again, “X-mas Movies” started to appear on various TV channels, closely followed by adverts for assorted types of turkey roast, artificial fir trees, celebratory confectionery etc, etc, etc. And to cap it all, the contrast between Western commercialized end-of-year bonhomie and what is actually going on the world is perhaps starker this year than it has been for a while. Russia’s invasion of Ukraine has bogged-down into a meat-grinding bloody stalemate. And more tragically still (if that were possible) in the part of the world where the events supposedly commemorated at “Christmas” actually occurred, bloodshed on an appalling scale is a daily occurrence. This is accompanies the reignition of an inter-ethnic war-for-land that had been reduced to a smoulder (or at least largely forgotten about by the Western media) and a widening of the conflict by Iranian proxies in Yemen and Lebanon (two failed states that promise more conflict for the future). None of this is to forget the tangling of Philippino and Chinese boats in the South China Sea (something of a misnomer - the tangle in question was much closer to the Philippine than Chinese coast), civil war in Myanmar (and several more in the horn of Africa), and political chaos in the Anglo-Saxon world. Oh, and then there’s the prospect of another Trump presidency. But no, I am not going carry on listing reasons to be (un)cheerful, rant, or even just sink into deep despair, tempting though all of those may be. Precisely because this is a cursed world, there is an amazing contrast to be drawn between what’s actually going on and an event actually worth focussing on, although often either missed or mythologized.

It is an event with even greater resonance because of what is going on in Israel and Gaza. Arguably today, as in the time detailed in the Gospels, Bethlehem is occupied territory. Precisely who is doing the occupying is at the centre of the current dispute. But the absence this year of anything worth celebrating is not. So there will be no Christmas tree or Christmas lights in Manger Square; the Church of the Nativity will be all but silent. And yet this is all similar to the circumstances that God Himself decided to enter in the person of His eternal son, Jesus. The Bethlehem in which Jesus was born was just as gritty as today, although a lot less famous. It was far from the centre of the world’s attention, but was an obscure location, within an obscure, conquered and occupied region of the world empire of the day. There was no Manger Square of course. And there was arguably no stable either; only a manger is mentioned in Luke’s account – the stable is inferred. There may well have been no inn, in which there was no room. Only Luke mentions what is usually translated as  “inn”, and it may have been a guestroom in the house of a relative. At no point in this story do we find all the other things that stand in the foreground of the contemporary Christmas – trees, presents and old men with white beards. All of this stuff was invented (and became “traditional”) relatively recently; the Santa with white beard and red coat is essentially the product of 1930’s advertising designed to sell a particular US soft-drink. I would suggest this stuff is the bit that’s worth forgetting. The earlier stuff, of much older provenance, is it turns out, much more relevant to our current hard-pressed circumstances.

At some point after the baby was born in Bethlehem (essentially to two homeless people who were about to become refugees in a country not their own), ugly politics intervened in the form of the local power-broker. Alerted by some unexpected visiting dignitaries to the fact that a potential rival for the peoples’ affections had been born, King Herod decided that power was more important to him than basic humanity. So he instigated the slaughter of who knows how many male children under the age of two in and around Bethlehem. Given this further sickening resonance with what is currently occurring in Gaza, it will be a brave pastor or minister that will include this little nugget in their nativity stories this Christmas. But these were the circumstances surrounding Jesus birth, and they contrast with the sanitized version that decorates the front of many a Christmas card. It was a world of poverty and suffering, of scandal, of refugees, political violence and curse. In other words, this world, our world, not a made up one.

And yet beneath the surface something important, joyful even, was happening. Jesus birth is not the whole story, but it was the beginning of something with staggering implications. Angels in the Gospel accounts are not always perceived to be good news, even if it’s good news they bring. The angel that came to Mary initially terrified her. And the news that was communicated to her was scary too. While no gynaecologist, Mary knew fine and well where babies came from, and so did her betrothed, Joseph. So it took another angel appearing in a dream, who also had to pacify Joseph and calm his fears, before telling him to continue with his plan to take Mary as his wife, notwithstanding the fact that she was pregnant, and not by him. All credit to him to reverting from Plan B (quietly divorcing Mary) to Plan A. The angel that encountered a bunch of Bethlehem shepherds initially terrified them too. Yet what they are told is “..good news of great joy..”: a long-promised rescuer had been born. Some rescuer, lying helpless in a feeding trough! Others also identified the baby as a deliverer of peace with significance way beyond the borders of Israel (Simeon in the temple at Jerusalem). Something was stirring in this world. It would be missed by the vast majority of those who lived at time, just as the Jesus’ significance continues to missed today.

So you could do a lot worse for yourself than forget about the made up man with the red coat and white beard, and focus on the real baby born in weakness, frailty and vulnerability in Bethlehem of all places. I wonder what became of Him?

Science’s problems – getting bigger?

In my last post ("Science's big problem(s)") I pointed out that science was a human activity, and therefore prone to being less than pristine and perfect. Precisely because it is carried on by scientists who, whatever else they may be, are certainly human, there are bound to be mistakes made. This needn’t derail the whole exercise (as is clear from the history of such mistakes), but it does mean that a degree of humility and realism are appropriate. Such humility and realism notably departed in the 19^th century, almost deliberately driven out by the likes of Huxley, his X-club and the like. Warfare (they claimed) was the inevitable state of things between science and religion/theology (in the West usually Christianity and Christian theology), and was ably stoked by the likes of John William Draper and Andrew Dickson White. Science reigned supreme, was the only source of real knowledge (about everything), and other approaches to reality (which everyone agreed existed and mattered) were only of historical and therefore limited interest. Christian belief, at least in its orthodox, supernaturalist form, was not useful for anything, could be dangerous and misleading, and should essentially be dispensed with, at least for practical purposes. Humanity had to move on from its intellectual adolescence to something closer to maturity. If tricky issues arose, they could be settled by sensible, scientific men (and they were mainly men), without resorting to other modes of thought.

One of intellectual history’s tragedies is that theology played a role in its own demise, retreating from its position as the “queen of sciences” and almost cravenly capitulating to the attack of its critics. Prior to the activity of Huxley et al, and increasing the success of their attack when it came, theology developed what looks to the outsider (or at least this outsider) cold feet. Assailed by external attack from the likes of Spinoza and Voltaire, and weakened by those who might claim to be its friends like Kant, theology didn’t appear to be in a mood to put up much of a fight. It, along with the Christianity it had sought to illuminate, appeared to accept that it had to move on from “naive supernaturalism” in order to be fit for the age of enlightenment (and later romanticism or whatever was flavour of the day). This was partly because science, so impressive in its achievements, was claimed to make supernaturalism untenable. No point being sentimental about it. Besides which, all the supernatural stuff (God creating and sustaining a universe from nothing, talking donkeys, healed lepers and paralytics, resurrections and the like) was not core and key and could be lost without losing anything important. Rather than scrutinising the underlying presuppositions and claims of the likes of Kant and Hegel, theology had to capitulate if it was to be intellectually respectable. In particular, the Bible and its claims had to be radically reappraised on the basis of what the reason of the day found palatable.

It is worth pointing out that in parallel with this capitulation in the theological academy, in the real world outside, different stories were unfolding. So, from the late 1730’s in the Anglo-Saxon world, the likes of Whitefield and Wesley went about the business of preaching essentially the same Gospel as that of the Apostles leading to the “great awakening” which, in turn, arguably led to wider social reforms in 19^th century, and to influences still detectable today in North America. In the 19^th century there also remained those who prominently preached that same Gospel seeing it affecting the thinking and lives of ordinary men and women (the likes of McCheyne and Chalmers in Scotland, and Spurgeon and Ryle in England). And in the latter part of the 19^th century the apparent need of some to press the narrative of an inevitable conflict between science and Christianity is itself evidence that progress in eradicating “superstition” had not been as extensive or successful as the likes of Huxley hoped. To this day there are echoes of this in some of the rantings of the “new” atheists of recent memory (whose demise was discussed here). But these are stories for another day. I need to get back to science and its contemporary challenges.

It is a feature of the conflict narrative that it singularly failed to explain why quite to many of those involved in science continued quite happily to be believers of all sorts, including orthodox Christian believers, apparently having no difficulty reconciling one profession with another. The accusation was occasionally made that this could only be accomplished by them keeping two contradictory worlds apart. But, for what it’s worth, this was neither my personal approach, nor my observation of the approach of others. Rather the opposite appeared to be the case. I benefited from the influence of those who reckoned that hard thinking did indeed have to be done, but that Christians had no need to fear truth. Neither was there a need to fear caricatures, half-truths and castles built on sand. As Christians in science were were following a valid and important vocation, not risking either our faith or our intellectual integrity. But it turns out that even outwith the evangelical camp (to which I belong), something was astir in theology.

There have always been alternative models, besides that of conflict, for the interaction between theology and science. Some see no necessary interaction between the two at all, claiming that they address very different issues with very different tools; they can be compartmentalised and should be kept separate. Others, while arguing in a similar vein, think that they are complementary and compatible, rather than separate. Now it appears that the worm has began to turn. Perhaps anticipated by philosophers like Mary Midgely and her critique of scientism in both its crude and subtle forms (e.g. see her “Science as Salvation”), there are those from a theological perspective prepared to claim once again not just an important place for theology, but an indispensable, or even a superior place in providing explanations that matter. This sometimes emerges from expected sources (e.g. see this article from Michael Hanby, Associate Professor of Religion and Philosophy of Science at the John Paul II Institute at the Catholic University of America), but it may be gaining a degree of intellectual respectability propelled by those from a range of backgrounds prepared to do hard yards (e.g. see Paul Tyson’s recent “A Christian Theology of Science”).

It could be that in a postmodern world where meaning is what anyone and everyone takes it to be, this sort of “theology in charge” movement is just part of the inevitable mix (not to say mess). It may amount to nothing new or interesting. But the intellectual hegemony claimed for a certain view of science may be coming to an end, opening up a respectable space for theology once again. There are particular types of questions that science provides a means of answering. It would be to no one’s advantage to deny this. But there have always been really big questions that science never could really answer. The trick remains, as ever, to distinguish baby and bath water.