In need of better songs….

We all sing. In terms of musicality some of us sing well, some not so well. But much more important than the tunefulness of the melody is the meaning of what we sing. Admittedly this is apparently contradicted by the lyrics of many of the most popular songs. I am often bemused by the words folk are happy to belt out at the top of their voices, even on those occasions when I actually understand the words that are being used. The aim of song writers often seems to be to provide a diverting overall sound rather than any sense or message. There will be the odd half phrase perhaps hinting at what a song is “about”. On that basis one might be able to classify it as happy or sad, or whether it’s about life or love or loss. But meaning and message are often lost among slush and filler. And some songs seem to be “about” nothing. There are interesting exceptions.

In this city (Liverpool) there is a particular song sung as an anthem that has taken on a particular significance. Collectively we (if I might number myself among the Scousers) have become known for it. “You’ll never walk alone” is a show tune from Rogers and Hammerstein’s “Carousel”. The actual words are, largely, nonsense. If taken as advice on what to do in a given set of circumstances (“When you walk through a storm, hold your head up high”), they would lead to disaster or at the very least stinging eyes and a severe headache from flying debris. And some of them are flat wrong and not true to life (“At the end of the storm, There’s a golden sky, And the sweet silver song of a lark”). At the end of some of life’s storms it often seems that there’s more storm. And usually the larks have more sense than to hang about; rather than singing sweetly they swiftly relocate to sing elsewhere. But we all innately understand metaphor, and where a lyric chimes with our hopes we suspend our disbelief. When sung by thousands of Scousers at Anfield, in the context of remembered disasters like Hillsborough, with their attendant multiple injustices, the song takes wing and does seem to make sense after all. Then the sound of singing fades, and we’re left with what? Well, not a lot. Perhaps a warm fuzzy feeling. But this too doesn’t last. How we need better songs.

Last week, Week 3 of the Keswick Convention, in the morning Bible readings Vaughan Roberts was considering just such songs. They are the collection of 150 songs nestling in the middle of the Old Testament, the Psalms. But no random collection this. Like every other book making up the Bible, these particular songs were not just thrown together. Although they were accumulated over a long period of time, the book of Psalms has a structure and trajectory;  as VR put it “momentum builds up”. So, day by day we traced the pattern that leads from the sweeping introduction of Psalms 1 and 2, through the succeeding books, from struggle and lament, via hope to the praise due to the God of covenant promises, whose individual, global and cosmic purposes will not be thwarted. Here are the better songs we need. Songs worth singing. And VR drew our attention to the effect of singing these songs.

The analogy he used to illustrate his point was the scene in "Casablanca" when Victor (the hero unless you’re a big Bogart fan), outraged by a bunch of Nazi officers singing their Nazi songs, tells the band to strike up the Marseillaise. Up to that point the non-Nazi denizens at Rick’s had looked weak and befuddled, compared to the apparent strength and confidence of their new overlords. But led by Victor the crowd picks up the words of the song of their homeland. Lungs fill, backs straighten and soon tears flow with hope of better days to come.  That is the effect of such songs (partly captured by “You’ll never walk alone” too). But there were no guarantees that this hope would not be crushed.

Not so those songs in the Psalms, even when sung by exiles. For the whole of creation has a goal set for it and Heaven’s King will one day be vindicated. Those who take refuge in Him will be saved and safe. This state of affairs has never appeared believable to fallen humanity, so taken with themselves and singing competing songs. The hope in Psalms appeared even less believable when the long-promised King was executed on a Roman cross. And of course if that was the end of the story, then these songs too would simply be about pious but ultimately frustrated hope, with no real purchase on reality. But it was this King who could not be held by death, and who was raised to demonstrate the inexorable progress of His Kingdom. Even so, at the time it didn’t look much like progress. The ancient world was not impressed. After all, how can a crucified God be any kind of God at all? And yet the Psalm of the sufferer (Ps 22) becomes the Psalm of the Sovereign (Ps 24). And although what is ancient is past (obviously), the good news of Jesus the still-coming king, continues to spread. His songs continue to be sung.

To be reminded of better songs at Keswick was valuable and refreshing (and the singing was good too). The need for others to learn these better songs has been amply demonstrated by the riots that broke out in the UK a week ago and appear to be continuing. The rioters have their songs of course, songs of hostility and hatred. These, it turns out, are also old songs. But they have never achieved anything except to provide an accompaniment to destruction and heartache.

I know which songs I’d rather sing.

Keswick from the inside…

For the last few summers we’ve headed to Keswick in the English lakes for our summer holiday, to of all things, a Christian convention (I’ve written previously about the apparent strangeness of this). The Keswick convention now extends through three weeks of the English summer, and provides Bible teaching, seminars and other things to about 3000-5000 people per week. It is not small, and it is not new; next year will mark its 150^th anniversary. But in previous years we have been here as punters (or customers as someone suggested I should call participants). We have turned up to morning Bible readings (that is just a meeting at the centre of which is effectively a sermon) and evening celebrations (just a meeting with a slightly shorter sermon), and in between we’ve walked and read, eaten ice cream, snoozed, met up with friends and so on. Just a happy and relaxed way to spend a week of summer. But this year is different.

Keswick runs on volunteers as well as being supported by the voluntary giving of those who attend (and probably others). This year I think the estimate was about 700 volunteers over the three weeks. We had obviously heard the of the need for volunteers when we attended in previous years. But this year we took the plunge. So, months ago we filled in the requisite forms and named the appropriate referees. There are various teams that make up the volunteer body (tech team, welcome team, catering etc). Having followed a process of elimination (i.e. what would I not enjoy?) I applied for the BaseCamp team. I should explain that BaseCamp is what the Convention calls an area that houses the café, bookshop and various exhibitors from Christian organisations. It also provides an overflow for the main tent where meetings take place, providing live streaming of the as well as a slightly less formal vibe. I had a rough idea of what BaseCamp was like having frequented it in the past. But I didn’t really have much idea of what volunteering to serve in it for a week would be like.

This is not to say I was unprepared. Before pitching up in Keswick there was training to do. This was delivered online in the form of videos which covered everything from standards and ethos to safeguarding, as well as more technical stuff like risk awareness training and “radio protocols” (over!). There was a team meeting on zoom before the Convention and a run of emails. So I certainly felt like I was preparing. All of this was completed on the first day we turned up (last Saturday) when we had a briefing in our base for the week, met the team, had a specific security briefing (a sign of the times) and a walk round the venue. I was genuinely impressed at the effort to prepare and support us, an effort that I’m assuming is made with the other teams. Some members of the team were old hands, and some of us newbies, but from the start we were all possessed of a good spirit of getting stuck in. And just as well. Because having had a couple of hours of briefings, followed by a couple of hours of finding our accommodation (which the Convention provides for volunteers) the first evening was upon us and the site was opened to its Week 2 denizens.

And so here we are now in the middle of the week. My feet and back are bit sore it is true; the hours have been quite long, and a good part if it is spent standing up. But my enthusiasm is undimmed. Our role has been slightly odd in that while we are certainly interested in the Conventioneers we also have a bunch of exhibitors to engage with. We have a basic responsibility for everyone’s safety and security (which today meant getting security to remove an unattended bag), and a sort of pastoral interest in all those who come through our doors. This is particularly the case for those who might be here on their own and appreciate a chat. But there are also  questions to be answered and directions to be given. Keswick attracts wide spectrum of ages and theological outlooks if obviously  concentrated on that part of the spectrum that might still be labelled evangelical. Some come as part of a group, others knowing that they’ll be meeting old friends. Some come alone but know they’ll be welcomed and supported. Some are perhaps lonely. But in Basecamp there’s been time and space for some of our team to sit and chat at our tables with care and sensitivity. Hopefully all those who arrive alone don’t feel alone for too long.

But we also have about 30 exhibitors to look after. Because this was Week 2, their stands were already set up, even if there was a change in personnel. We had the happy task of talking to them and making sure they had what they needed. But this was no chore. They are a very interesting bunch of people, with a passion for the tasks that their organisations undertake. So talking to them isn’t a problem. And many of them have really interesting back stories and experiences as individuals that make for interesting listening. There’s also a real variety of organisations represented, from straightforward missions (if there is ever such a thing) to specific areas and groups, via support agencies of various kinds to theological educators and trainers.

So this has turned out to be a very people focused week. Many interactions may be trivial, but many are not. And there is the possibility that some will be truly significant. Maybe we will facilitate the call of someone to the mission field. That’s not just about classic missionary service overseas (still vital) but also about opportunities on our doorstep. Maybe we will have the privilege of providing encouragement to someone who turned up feeling downtrodden and depressed. Maybe helped by a conversation in BaseCamp, they’ll be enabled to return home with renewed vigour. I was impressed with the level of preparation and it’s been a real pleasure serving alongside my teammates. Seeing things from the inside, and doing things on the inside, has been a great experience.

Might even do it again…..  

On ritual, signs and symbols…..

We do ritual so well in this country. Case in point, the state opening of Parliament. More robes than you could shake a stick at. And on the subject of sticks, near the beginning there’s the ritual of Black Rod (or more technically the Lady or Gentleman Usher of the Black Rod, currently Sarah Clarke). Black Rod is sent from the Lord’s to the Commons, only to have the chamber door slammed in her face. She then uses her stick (the eponymous “black rod” of her title) to bang on the door. Once she gains entry she requests the members of the Common to attend the King in the Lord’s chamber. It is, of course, a complete pantomime, while at the same time being symbolic of the struggle of the Commons’ to assert their practical authority over the Crown. While most of this is lost on the modern TV audience, we did once in our history fight a civil war over these issues (and one or two others). So the symbolism is not without significance. If you were starting with a blank sheet of paper and designing the mechanisms of government, no doubt there would be no place for poor old Black Rod (or a Monarch, or the flummery of the state opening of parliament or much else that we have). But of course, our system did not start with a blank sheet, and all this ritual has evolved and continues to evolve (if too slowly for some).

It is also interesting that even if you do start with a blank sheet, you don’t end up with an absence of ritual. It is still present, but is slightly less colourful and steeped (or dipped) in a shallower history. Those two beacons of republicanism, the US and France, are hardly without ritual. Of the two, the US, at least until recently, was the more stable. In a conscious bid to break with monarchical tendencies and principles, their head of state is not addressed as a “majesty” or a “highness”, but simply as “Mr”. And yet is anyone seriously going to claim that there is no ritual surrounding the US Presidency? The myth is that he (and of course so far they all been a he) is simply a common citizen raised up for a time by his fellow citizens, eventually returning to being a common citizen. And yet even if you believe that any of them begin their journey from ordinariness, they certainly don’t return to it. And as President they wield far more executive power than most of our recent monarchs. It even turns out, according to the US Supreme Court, that the republican myth that everyone is equal before the law, is a myth. The office comes with its rituals, and a number of those stick with even an ex-President. It’s not even a particularly good system for selecting the brightest and best for the top executive role in the state, as the current options in the current electoral cycle amply demonstrate. Here in the UK (or at least in England) we have undoubtedly had some dodgy monarchs in our time. But the hereditary principle has served us pretty well as a means of generating heads of state for the last 150 years, and arguably longer. This may well go some to explaining why republicanism continues to fail to gain traction in the UK. Even in Scotland, at the time of the independence referendum back in 2014 (was it really a decade ago?), the SNP were very keen to stress that they expected Scotland to remain a constitutional monarchy under Queen Elisabeth. That love of ritual runs very deep in us.

And of course ritual is present not only at the level of the State. Summer is a time of graduations. We all get dressed up in hoods and gowns, to process in strict order, to receive our degrees and certificates. It is the final validation of our hard work. I graduated for the third time last weekend. Although everyone says it’s a faff and a fuss, most of us must actually enjoy it (otherwise why would it endure?), and the (small) degree of public recognition that goes with it. So from the oldest of ancient educational establishments, to the newest of colleges, there will be a final ritual to be completed. And it is even spreading to our schools, who in the American fashion (as with that other import, the school “prom”) are increasingly organising “graduation” ceremonies for their departing senior pupils. Then there are lots of private and personal rituals. The sportsman who follows the same process and wears the same left sock as he enters the field of play. The academic who before any major international conference presentation goes through the same ritual as they take to the stage. Ritual is something basic to us personally, even if we often don't call it that.

There is something here that provides more evidence that it’s not just the stuff we can see, hear and feel that is important to us. There are other things that matter; there other levels of reality that matter. They come to us in sign and symbol. Some of these point back into history (national and personal). They point us to things that have enduring relevance even if we’re largely oblivious to their significance. That is certainly true of Christian symbols and rituals. What now is most familiar to us in the form of silver jewellery, the crosses worn by many for adornment, was actually a form of political, social and judicial humiliation. The central ritual celebrated by churches worldwide points to that same event, the death of Jesus on a Roman cross. But just as with the state opening of Parliament, much of the significance of the cross is lost on us. We can trace back symbols and signs to the things symbolised and signified. There might be some value to investigating the symbols in use this week in Parliament. There is certainly value in investigating what was going on when Jesus died on a cross.

The problem, indeed the tragedy, is that we often get stuck on the sign. And not understanding what is really going on we eventually come to undervalue them. But important signs, and important rituals, invite us to consider the things signified. Don’t get stuck on the cross as a symbol and miss the underlying reality.

Election reflection….

Democracy is much misunderstood both by its practitioners and critics. It is undermined by its more autocratically inclined opponents, and occasionally by those who should know better (whose narrow interest is that some of us who can vote, don’t vote). It is routinely taken for granted by those of us who have the privilege of participating in it as evidenced by generally relatively low turnouts here in even general elections in the UK and in the US. Democracy is often an aspiration of those who are never asked who should hold power over them, and it is more valued by those who have only recently come to experience it (as evidenced by the long queues in the recent South African election). It is often messy, it necessitates compromises (either within or between groupings and parties), and it is often peppered with hypocrisy and dissembling (and occasionally flat-out lying).

It was Churchill, speaking in 1947 in the Commons in a debate about amending the 1911 Parliament Act, who said: “Many forms of Government have been tried, and will be tried in this world of sin and woe. No one pretends that democracy is perfect or all-wise. Indeed, it has been said that democracy is the worst form of Government except all those other forms that have been tried from time to time…”. This is the bit of the quotation that is familiar. But he continued “..there is the broad feeling in our country that the people should rule, continuously rule, and that public opinion, expressed by all constitutional means, should shape, guide, and control the actions of Ministers who are their servants and not their masters.” That “broad feeling” remains strong more than 75 years later, long after the demise of both Churchill and his original audience. Funnily enough, in the current UK election campaign, it is the leader of the Labour opposition who has seemed more in tune with Churchill on this score than his supposed political heirs and successors, talking about putting public service at the heart of politics. After a long periods in power politicians (on both ends of the political spectrum) seem to forget they are the peoples’ servants. So it is to Sir Keir Starmer’s credit that in the final stages of the election campaign he has put service at the centre of his philosophy for government. Time will tell if he is sincere and strong enough to resist the temptations of political pragmatism and competing agendas. But if it turns out to be just another sound-bite, another ruse to attract votes, he’ll have to face us all again in a few years. That’s the beauty of elections. They provide a reality check, a sort of political gravity. It can be ignored for shortish periods, but eventually it exerts itself usually followed by the thump of former high flyers impacting terra firma.

So we duly wandered round to our polling station this afternoon, to put a simple pencil “x” against a particular name. An election is always a great leveller. MPs and ministers stopped being that when the election was called. The power drained away from them and flowed to us. So they were in effect brought back to our level. The power has lain in our hands over the weeks of the campaign. But elections also remind all of us that we are on the same level too. My vote counts as much as your vote, no more, no less. And our mass participation in the same simple act for us all (with the single exception that we may put our crosses in different boxes), reminds us of the broader community to which we belong and contribute and for which we are jointly responsible. It doesn’t matter our occupation (or whether we have none), our age, social or ethnic background, bank balance, preferred TV channel or style of music. For one day we’re all the same, while also being different and diverse.

There’s one other thing that I’m very grateful for. There are real differences in the offers that the different parties have been making during the campaign. Most of those who align with those different parties do so precisely because there are sincerely held differences of view between them. I admit there will be those who will perhaps have more base motives, using their alignment strategically to advance their own interests. But I think that this remains a minority pursuit. And yet, by and large, the discussion of these real differences has remained within civil and civilised bounds. On the margins there may have been intimidation, and perhaps even threatened or actual violence. But this has been vanishingly rare. We should be grateful. I cast my vote this afternoon calmly and freely.

One other thing I’m fairly certain of: whoever loses this election will not be found protesting in Whitehall or Downing Street tomorrow morning, trying to whip their supporters into a frenzy with incoherent and unsubstantiated accusations of the election being stolen. Power will flow from the people, back to the politicians, probably quite a different group of politicians, relatively smoothly. We used to think that such transitions were just part of the normal democratic process. But of late we’ve learned that it is dangerous to take this for granted too. It turns out that it is more fragile than we thought. And as the change unfolds tonight and into tomorrow (and if the exit poll is to be believed it is a big change), we should breath a sigh of relief and be thankful. Thankful that somehow democracy, for all its faults and messiness, has worked again. Then we can all get back to the business of moaning about how horrible our political system is and arguing about which particular collection of incompetents are messing it up.

At least we will have had the privileged of putting them in the position of messing it up. 

 

Faith, at least in some quarters, had almost become a dirty word, such that to call someone a “person of faith” was to question their intellectual adequacy and to suggest an unreasonable commitment to the implausible and non-empirical. This attitude was typical of that particular element of the “anti-faith” brigade that held that science was the all-conquering, all-sufficient means of answering any and all allowable questions. They of course claimed for themselves the authority to decide which were the “allowable” questions. They had a habit of ruling as unallowable those questions that they didn’t like or which their methods of choice couldn’t cope with. Theirs was always a highly questionable (and questioned) approach and it has not aged well. At least in its “New Atheist” form, its influence does seem to have ebbed somewhat.

Perhaps this was the inevitable consequence of the post-modern fashion of arguing that as nothing was true, anything might be. Truth became merely a personal perspective with no interpersonal authority. Therefore even “faith” could not be criticised too harshly, particularly when held, practised and discussed privately, away from the tricky and pressing issues that are the focus of public dialogue. But although largely relegated to the private sphere, faith began to become at least semi-respectable. Mind you, this kind of faith was an odd, unattractive, sort of beast. It had no purchase on, or relevance to, anything that apparently mattered.

More recently there has been another development of note, for the post-modern tide has also receded  (mainly because in its strongest forms it was self-refuting). Some commentators, particularly, but not exclusively, on the political right, have begun to argue that in the West faith (specifically in its Christian form) had bequeathed us all certain cherished values and views. They traced back to a faith-based heritage important concepts like human dignity and equality, tolerance, pluralism and more. But because for the best part of a couple of centuries these very foundations had not just been rejected but thoroughly trashed, they had noticed that some of these concepts and values themselves, not merely the soil from which they sprang, have begun to be questioned. First in the academy, then in institutions and finally in the culture, values like equality before the law and human rights were seen as being in danger to everyone’s detriment. Consider the value of truth and speaking the truth. Once, both in the UK and the US, it was a basic assumption that in public as well as private life being honest and speaking the truth was a “good thing”. This came directly from the ninth (of ten) commandments, and commitments flowing from it. Why were such directives worth paying attention to? Because they were an aspect of health creaturely living and came backed by the authority of the Creator of the created. But having relegated said Creator to the role of remote first mover and tinkerer with watches, and then having spent a long time denying His existence at all, this scheme loses much of its force. Maybe such notions are not as “true” or as useful as was once supposed. They can be dispensed with at no real cost.

Currently, on both sides of the Atlantic we appear to be testing this to destruction. So we find ourselves mired in untruth but have discovered some of the costs. Scepticism quickly turns to cynicism, and trust is rapidly eroded. At least in the UK our political system managed to remove one of our most-noted untruth tellers of recent years. Boris is, at least for the political moment, no more. He is playing no obvious role in our current general election campaign. What did for him was his propensity for being less than honest, presumably on the basis that the rest of us either wouldn’t notice or wouldn’t care. However, it is worth noting that as well as having a semi-detached relationship with truth and integrity, he also turned out to lack basic competence when it came to running a government. Perhaps if he had done his day job better he would have got away with his truth problem. But the Boris episode, has tended to reinforce the old joke about how you tell when a politician is lying – his lips move. While funny, this used not to be particularly true. There were always exceptions, and there was a degree of obfuscation and hypocrisy involved. But by and large politicians knew that while they might get away with claiming grey that was either black or white they had to avoid insulting our intelligence by claiming that white was black (or vice versa).

On the other side of the Atlantic, even the small crumb of comfort one might take from Boris’ demise is striking in its absence. Trump has largely been exposed as suffering from the same disease that afflicted Boris (or possibly it’s the other way round) and yet he is very much still around. A large slice of his electorate, including a lot of “evangelicals”, seem to prefer myths to truth. Reasons keep being found for why what once would have made him unelectable (his flat out lies, his abuse of the law not to mention his legally established abuse of women) turn out not to be that big a problem. Truth has become tainted while rank mistrust (occasionally accompanied by politically inspired violence) are all too observable. All this in what once had been thought of as a stable and (largely) prosperous democracy one that could be depended upon to uphold commonly accepted values of decency and integrity. Now even that hallmark of a democracy, the peaceful transfer of power, has been attacked and is under attack.

Spend several centuries dismissing what underlies the values that have shaped our culture, specifically faith in the God who reveals Himself in Scripture, and prepare to loose those values. Perhaps other foundations can be found, but most of the replacements that have been tried do not appear to have worked. Some no doubt celebrate the prospect of the demise of values that might loosely be called Biblical. For them the values themselves, as well as the foundation one which they were built, may have been the problem all along. And some have argued that we are seeing the fruit of a concerted campaign to undermine what had been widely accepted as valuable. Maybe might is right after all and human beings have no inherent dignity simply by virtue of the fact that they are human beings. Maybe inequality is just how things are and beyond that it is how things should be. While I view this brave new world as being intolerable, maybe you don’t.

However, if you feel that something important and valuable (and true) is being lost, much of this argument can be turned on its head. Perhaps the faith that gave rise to what had been valued is worth another look. This kind of reasoning prompted Justin Brierley to discus, first in his podcast “Unbelievable” and more recently in his book “The Surprising Rebirth of Belief in God”, the proposition that faith is making a comeback (or at least its “ebb” has begun to reverse). It is worth pointing out that Brierley is a Christian, and his book is a work of apologetics; he writes to commend the Christian faith as being at the very least worth investigating. It could be he’s seeing a pattern where none actually exists. This is essentially the argument of Ralph Jones in his review of Brierley’s book in “The New Humanist” (but then, to be fair, it would be). But from Douglas Murray to Russell Brand something appears to be stirring.

At least “faith” is no longer a dirty word.

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.