Truth and trousers...

Spurgeon (as he makes clear) was actually quoting a popular proverb when he said in one of his sermons “A lie will go round the world while truth is pulling its boots on”. Personally I prefer the version that replaces boots with trousers (it alliterates better). So pervasive and noticeable are the presence and power of lies, that essentially the same thing has been often repeated. Some trace it back to a comment by Virgil in the Aeneid (Book 4, line 174 - ‘Rumour, than whom no other evil thing is faster’, written about 25BC) , but in reality the problem of lies goes way further back than that. As recorded in Genesis 3:4, God (who cannot lie) had said X, the devil, represented by a serpent, had said Y, Eve (with tragic consequences) went with Y. Words have meaning, meaning drives behaviour, behaviour has consequences. Lies (essentially ‘wrong’ words) usually have bad consequences. But while lies are obviously nothing new, what is new (or at least newish) is their increased speed and greater range.

We need to look no further for examples than the online purveyors of conspiracy theories and other assorted lies. Alex Jones, the Infowars founder and fast-talking online host, used his platform to repeat again and again that the 2012 Sandy Hook Elementary School mass shooting, in which 26 were killed (20 of them children) was a hoax. To support this assertion, he made up various supporting claims. These lies had real-world effects on those impacted by the shooting, prompting them to take him to court in civil actions. And it turns out that truth, a bit like gravity, has a way (usually) of eventually asserting itself. Jones’ claims, or more specifically the harms caused by them, were examined by two juries of his peers, one in Texas and one in Connecticut. Having calmly considered the evidence put to them in a court of law (albeit in civil rather than criminal courts), with all the rhetoric and bluster that Jones and his ilk routinely employ stripped away, both juries found Jones and his claims not to be credible and awarded substantial damages against him. It is revealing that while the Connecticut verdict was being read out in court, Jones was online mocking the jury’s decision and seeking to continue to make money from his lies (something he was particularly good at). To date, the plaintiffs in the Jones cases have yet to see much in the way of hard cash. He has sought to exploit various legal means of avoiding responsibility (or at least avoid paying out to the victims of his lies). But over a relatively short period of time his lies reached millions, compounding the distress of those who had already suffered at the hands of a madman with a gun. Sadly, his lying ways, and his use of the combination of the internet and lies to make money, both continue and have spawned (or at least emboldened) a number of imitators on this side of the Atlantic.

On the 22^nd May 2017, 22 people at an Ariana Grande concert in the Manchester Arena in the UK were murdered in a terrorist bomb explosion. Many others were injured, including Martin Hibbert who was paralysed from the waist down and his daughter Eve who suffered brain damage. But Richard Hall, a former engineer and TV producer who claimed he was acting as a journalist, believed (as he told a court) that there “was no bomb” and that “no one was genuinely injured in the attack". So he took it upon himself to track down survivors, seeking to interview and video them, in a bid to show that the (true) narrative of a terrorist bombing causing loss of life and severe injury was a “lie”. He streamed and sold various DVD’s and produced a book promulgating his “theories”, seeking to monetise them. The Hibberts (again, not the state in the form of the prosecuting authorities) brought a claim of harassment against him, and last week a judge found in their favour (the full judgement is now available online here), saying among other things that Hall’s “course of conduct was a negligent, indeed reckless, abuse of media freedom”. Hall had treated the statements of witnesses, experts, authorities and indeed courts “as of no value”, and in the name of “journalism” invaded the privacy of the Hibberts causing distress. Hall was not only found to have harassed the Hibberts, but, the judge said, should have known as any ordinary person using common sense would have known, that he was distressing them. The case has yet to be settled, and it will be interesting too see what the judge considers the proper level of damages to be. But in the time that Hall’s offending videos have been available online (and his DVDs and book are still available through his website), tens of thousands (or more) have seen his material, again multiplying the distress of those already scarred by the bombing itself. The actual numbers of those engaging with Hall’s version of reality (actually an unreality) are unknowable. But the harm that he perpetrated, or at least a small proportion of it, was revealed in the legal proceedings. If this judgement is the turning point that some analysts have suggested, maybe accountability has arrived at last, and truth, rather than lies and conspiracy theories, is making a comeback. We shall see.

Of course there has always been one place to find truth, indeed the truth. The trouble is we tend to find it difficult to identify truth even when it is standing right before us. How else do we explain Pilate’s famous question “What is truth?” when it, or rather he, was standing right in front of him? It is almost as though humanity is conditioned to prefer lies. Hence Spurgeon’s contention, now amplified by modern technology.

The fall and rise (ups and downs) and rise…….

While it is not inevitable, life can be a bit of a downer. And no matter how far we rise, what is inevitable for each and every one of us is our eventual mortal demise. It doesn’t bear thinking about. Which is why, by and large, we don’t. In this culture we usually neither think nor talk about death. And when it arrives, increasingly ways are found to avoid, or at least distract us, from “it”. More than a few daytime TV ads offer alternatives to “trad” funerals. Funded (probably) by your over-50’s life insurance policy (so you needn’t worry about being a “burden”), one can now opt for a “direct cremation”, and your loved ones can remember you howsoever they wish (or not), without any “fuss”, and certainly without reminding themselves of their (or your) mortality.

But on my morning walk this morning (nothing excessive, just to the paper shop), I happened to get thinking about a number of folk that are no longer with us. Some were people that I didn’t know personally. This was prompted in part because I watched the “Concert for George” recently. Organised by friends and colleagues of George Harrison, former Beatle and devotee of eastern mysticism, Harrison grew up about a mile from where I’m typing. Despite prodigious talent, worldwide fame, a considerable fortune (his estate was worth about £100M when he died), and the love and affection of his family and many friends, it’s not clear he was a man who really found what he was looking for. He died in 2001, in a house belonging to someone else, albeit surrounded by his family and Hare Krishna chants. After his death his family released his final “message to the world”: “Everything else can wait, but the search for God cannot wait, and love one another”. It was to George’s credit that at least he had been looking.

Another recent reminder of life’s biggest reality has been the sudden death of Alex Salmond. This is a name known to everyone in Scotland, most people in England, and not a few beyond. He was a former First Minister of Scotland, leader of the Scottish National Party (and beyond that Scottish nationalists in general), and general pest and thorn in the side of UK governments of every political stripe. He died last Saturday from heart attack, having made a speech, far from home, at a conference in North Macedonia. While a man with many political opponents, the subsequent tributes have shown that he was much respected and had many friends across the political spectrum. I have no idea what his opinions were on religious matters. Interestingly, he one described himself as a “Church of Scotland adherent”. So, not a believer, not a Christian, not even a Presbyterian, simply an “adherent” of one of Scotland’s mainline, and declining, protestant denominations. I’m not sure I really know what that means. Maybe that was the idea. He famously fell out with fellow nationalists in the Scottish Government, was subject of various inquiries, and was cleared of criminal charges (including charges of rape and sexual assault). While found not guilty (and “not proven” on one of the charges) by a jury after only six hours of deliberation, the trial did reveal patterns of behaviour that even his own defence counsel accepted might be construed as “inappropriate” (while falling short of criminality). But the trial, and the political and governmental machinations that surrounded it, revealed an unpleasant side to Scottish political life at the highest level. This has probably contributed to the demise of Salmond’s former party, the SNP. And while he was, and obviously felt, vindicated by his criminal trial, he was still seeking legal redress at the time of his death.

Perhaps more poignantly, he was speaking in Macedonia about democracy. But it was democracy that had delivered his most stinging defeat (while also bizarrely marking his biggest achievement). He successfully persuaded the Cameron UK government to hold a referendum on Scottish independence, and even got to choose the question on the ballot. And yet the people, by a convincing margin (much wider than in the Brexit referendum), rejected his view and voted to remain part of the United Kingdom. If all political careers end in failure (to misquote Enoch Powell), then you might have thought that to come relatively close to achieving a lifetime goal, see it dashed democratically by your own people (he was a nationalist after all), and then watch its likelihood recede even further because of the missteps and incompetence of your successors, would have been crushing. But by all accounts Salmond remained up for the struggle. Not “no” for him. He was ready to go again. But then he unexpectedly ran out of time. There are many who are shocked, and are left reflecting on the meaning of it all. One wonders how long it will be before their minds return to mundane and mortal matters, and they avert them once again from what is perhaps the most pressing of issues.

But I’ve known lots of others, not superstars or elite politicians, who have looked (or indeed not looked) and found the answer to our obvious mortality. And it is certainly not to ignore it. Over the years we’ve had various Bible study groups meeting in our home. And, over the years, some of the folk who we met with weekly, have died. In a number of cases I still walk past their former homes; I’m often reminded of them. All of them have left a gap of course, particularly for their immediate families, but also for that wider circle of which we were a part. And, along with their families we have grieved. The experience is inevitably difficult and challenging. And yet the folk I’m thinking of were Christian folk. I don’t mean that in the sense that they belonged to a certain culture, attended particular meetings, assented to particular religious propositions. What I mean is that they actually knew someone who had died (in a particularly gruesome manner), and yet returned shortly thereafter to life. When he eventually left our immediate vicinity he promised that he had not merely escaped death, but had overcome it. His claim was that those of us who knew him would be beneficiaries of what he had accomplished and share in this victory. Because of the culture that we are now all embedded in, this all reads like bizarre nonsense. Mystical and mysterious at best, deceptive and dangerous at the worst. But that is more apparent than real. What I have seen is the transformative power of the life and death of Jesus Christ time after time, in part if not yet completely.

Thinking about the moment of death is, I think, no more attractive to the Christian (the “Christ follower”) than it is for anyone else. And yet, emptied of its power to terrify and paralyse, death and its aftermath do bear thinking about. Because after the inevitable fall (if fall it is), there is now for those in Christ an equally inevitable, but much more comforting, rise in prospect. Thinking about life and death needn’t be any kind of a downer.

Not “vs” but “and” (so get over it).

I still occasionally come across talks entitled (to give but one example) “Religion vs Science: Can the two coexist?”; as of writing, the YouTube snippet of this lecture I stumbled upon had racked up 1.2M views. This title is fairly typical of a way of talking about science (somehow defined) and religion (somehow defined) that sees them as typically and inevitably in conflict. In its strongest form this conflict thesis is ahistorical (and in some cases anti-historical) taking this to be a steady state. It is the way things are now, and essentially the way they have always been, and it is the way they must always be. In its weaker forms there is often some acceptance that while this may not have been the way things were at some time in the past, the relationship inevitably developed into one of conflict and conflict is now the only possible way to describe the interaction of science and religion (or faith) by anyone who is in any sense mature in their thinking. This is so misconceived that it is difficult to know where to begin in refuting it. But let’s begin at an obvious place which will come as no surprise to any regular reader of these posts (you know who you are!).

The idea of an inevitable clash has been constantly undermined by the large numbers of serious people who, both now and in the past, have happily combined both a commitment to science (some at very exalted levels) and religion, specifically Christianity. My suspicion is that if you were familiar with Indian science you would find devout Hindus who were scientists, and in other parts of the world devout Muslims, similarly active in science. But I will stick with what I know best, and that form of religion that arguably played a vital role in the emergence of what we might call the experimental sciences. Because, as it happens, I am one such example.

I confess that during my career I was never particularly publicly prominent, I never chaired august scientific institutions, I influenced not one decision of national or international scientific public policy. But I was clearly a professional scientist, trained the way scientists are trained (a first degree in Physiology, PhD in Neurobiology, various postdoctoral jobs in other people’s labs), did all the things scientists do (as evidenced by the expected publications, many of which can be search for on the web and are open access), progressing as scientists progresses (I won a Welcome Trust Vision Research Fellowship earlyish in my career, set up my own lab, subsequently obtained substantive University posts, was a trainer of other doctoral scientists, etc). Yet I am also a Christian, and of kind some find to be most objectionable, variously labelled fundamentalist, evangelical, Bible-bashing and so on. It is true that occasionally a few other scientists tried to convince me of some basic contradiction between the two designations “scientist” and “Christian”. But a moment’s pause always demonstrated that the problem was with their definitions and modes of thought. Usually either their understanding of what science is and how it works was lacking (a surprisingly frequent occurrence even among scientists), or their familiarity with Biblical Christianity was low or non-existent. Caricatures of both science and Christianity are not hard to find and with them apparent contradictions and conflicts. But on closer inspection these turn out to be more apparent than real.

Note that I am not making the reverse mistake of claiming that it is impossible to find some who say that they personally find that there is a conflict between science and Christianity (like the lecturer mentioned at the outset), or that there are no examples of those who were “keen Christians” who report “losing their faith” because of science. What I am claiming is that there is ample evidence that this is neither necessary nor inevitable, and that I, with others, constitute that evidence. Because I have always worked in universities, I have always lived in University towns, and worshipped in churches found in such places. So it is perhaps not a surprise that there were always others around, who were educated to a similar level in science (although not always working as professional scientists) who like me found no obvious conflict in our personal thinking. There might be parts of the country where such creatures are thin on the ground. But I am neither rare or special. In my current church (which is admittedly large by UK standards, and is in a city with several universities) I can think of several science PhDs, across disciplines. Such is the contemporary scene I survey. But the reality is there have always been those who quite happily combine science and faith, without compromising either.

The historical situation is perhaps even clearer than either my personal case or the more general contemporary picture. This is slightly more contested ground, but those doing most of the contesting are often ignorant (sometimes wilfully so) of the actual history. Professional science as we know it today is a 19^th century development, but it emerged from 17^th century political, religious and philosophical ferments. Of particular interest are some of the key early players, particularly those who championed “experimental”, as opposed to “rational”, science. Experimental science in England (often called natural philosophy at the time) was actively promoted by such figures as Sir Francis Bacon (1561-1626), leading (at the time of the restoration of the Monarchy) to the establishment of The Royal Society of London in 1662. What is interesting about Bacon, and some of his acolytes like Samuel Hartlib (c. 1600-1662), is not merely their Christian sympathies, but the distinctly Puritan and Calvinistic framework that they operated within. This was even detectable in later characters like Robert Boyle, John Locke and even Isaac Newton (although Newton was famously heterodox in his theology). It was not merely that many of these men were shaped and educated in a world dominated by Protestant Christianity; many were themselves ardent believers (although by no means always Puritans), who saw in science as much as a theological exercise as anything else. Those named are not isolated examples; they could be multiplied. No conflict here then, at this early stage (at least not between science and religious belief).

There is another interesting historical example of peaceful coexistence worth noting: “The Declaration of Students of the Natural and Physical Sciences”, 1864/5. The date is significant. Signed by 717, including 66 Fellows of the Royal Society, this was a response to the furore that had raged following the publication of Darwin’s “Origin of the Species” in 1859. The Declaration made clear that the signatories regretted “..that researches into scientific truth are perverted by some in our own times into … casting doubt upon the truth and authenticity of the Holy Scriptures”. This made no sense, because “physical science is not complete” (nor it might be added is our understanding of God’s revealed truth). Contradictions between science and the Bible should be left “side by side”, and ultimately would be reconcilable because there is only one world, and ultimately one source of truth (ie God). If (or when) we find contradictions between scientific and Biblical views, the problem is likely to be in either the evidence (which is only ever partial) or our interpretation of the evidence (which can be no more perfect than we are). But the wider point to be made here is that at a key juncture in the 19^th century, the notion that there was a necessary conflict between the two, was by no means the only, or perhaps even a majority view among scientists.

So can the two, science and religion (or faith, or belief) coexist? Personal, contemporary and historical considerations suggest that they have, they are, they can and they will. 

Friendship and its problems…

Arguably, like everyone else, I’ve been interested in friendship for as long as there has been a me. That’s why, at first blush, there’s not much of interest to be said about friendship. For most of us (there are exceptions, some of which are due to pathology) friendship just happens in childhood. We don’t particularly plan it or reflect on it, it’s just a part of life. But, as with much else, friendship soon becomes a bit more complicated. So complicated in fact that it has long been the subject of scholarly effort and debate, stretching all the way from Aristotle’s “Ethics”, to rather more recent brain scanning experiments. So on the one hand it would seem that friendship is a fairly basic and widespread aspect of human experience, but on the other that it’s more complicated than just a fact of our experience. And with complication comes a degree of controversy.

Writing in a column entitled “Why you don’t need friends” (Psychology Today, 2019), Daniel Marston argued that while “[S]ocial interactions are important” this was mainly so that we could meet our basic needs (by which he meant basic biological and practical needs). Beyond this is was “not essential that the social relationships move beyond that point” to what we might recognise as friendship. As it happens, Aristotle classified precisely this sort of utilitarian relationship as a form of friendship, although of a fairly inferior type. But Marston is not alone in thinking friendship might not be necessary, and even that it might not be helpful. It turns out that Christians, or at least the theologically minded among them, have historically had something of an ambivalent “relationship” with friendship. Strangely this is because of the importance of love.

Friendship in the ancient world, or at least the higher forms of friendship, always had an exclusive air. One could be real friends with only a relatively small and select (and ideally selected) group. There was considerable discussion of exactly how many friends it was wise to have. Aristotle thought that the highest form of friendship (the friendship of virtue) was very rare and would only be found a few times in one’s life. Actually, it was rarer than that because in Aristotle's world only educated (which meant rich), connected, virtuous men were capable of such friendships. Cicero (who mainly channelled Aristotle to the Roman world) agreed that real friends of the highest quality were rare. Plutarch, who wrote slightly later in time, noticed that in antiquity what stood out was friendship between pairs (of men) and that perhaps we should aim to have just one, true, friend (our “bestie” in modern parlance). More than this was likely to be tricky and would probably only serve to dilute the quality of friendship enjoyed. But all of this talk of exclusivity is in stark contrast (so it was argued) to the love for even enemies that was said to mark the Gospel. Hence the tension.

Much more recently Robin Dunbar argued that we can probably maintain some sort of friendly relationship with up to about 150 individuals. He arrived at this number just over 30 years ago while “pondering a graph of primate group sizes plotted against the size of their brains” and this has since become known as Dunbar’s Number. Again, how friendship is defined matters. Dunbar was talking about the number of individuals one might recognise well enough to pass 15 minutes with while sitting in a station waiting room. Within this larger number he reckoned that 3-5 was the number of close friendships that were maintainable. It turns out this does seem to be roughly how the numbers shake out in actual surveys. But what is really interesting is that Dunbar’s work implied that friendship was about more than culture or education. The patterns that he observed were argued to persist through time and across cultures. It’s was almost as though the need to have and the ability to form friendships was designed into to us.

Then again, I would argue that it is. More heat than light has been generated over the years over the meaning of the opening chapters of the Bible. My view (for what it’s worth) is that, as has long been taught, these chapters tell us in outline, and in the absence of the biological (or cosmological) nuts and bolts, how we came to be and what we are basically like. And interestingly we were created by a community, to be a community. We are created by an “us” to be a “them”. While it is true that such community is partly achieved by marriage and family (and beyond that clan, tribe and nation), we miss something if we don’t see friendship as playing a role in expressing this aspect of our constitution. A culture in which the importance of the individual is constantly elevated and stressed, and more collective expressions of our humanity are downplayed or even suppressed, is likely to be one in which cracks eventually appear.

Others have charted the rise of narcissistic individualism and diagnosed it as a current and acute problem (see Carl Truman's “The Rise and Triumph of the Modern Self”). But more recently A.N. Wilson lamented (in his column in the Times) the demise of male friendship in particular, and beyond that the absence of friendships from the lives of those who only really know relationship in the form of the nuclear family. Both the US and UK governments have expressed concern at the impact of loneliness on the health and flourishing of communities on their respective jurisdictions. And such concerns are manifest beyond the Anglo-Saxon sphere. Friendship is not the whole answer to the problems thus identified, but it is probably part of the answer. In general we need to reverse the remorseless focus on I and me, and rediscover we (in all its various forms), but particular in the form of friendships.

Perhaps the biggest problem we have with friendship is simply a lack of those we can truly call friends.

End of a (shortish) era….

 

I am not sure what period of time an “era” is supposed to cover. One dictionary defines and era as “a long and distinct period of history”. But words like “long” and “distinct” are themselves a matter of interpretation. And history implies nothing more than a period that has passed. However, as far as my personal history is concerned, an era that began back in the pandemic has now come to an “official” end. You’ll have to judge for yourself whether it was either long or distinct.

Back in August 2021, in my “Life in the pandemic #31” post, I reflected on reverting to a student existence, swapping my staff card as Reader in Vision Science in the University of Liverpool for a student ID in the Union School of Theology. For anyone particularly interested in differences between the sciences and theology, I discussed a number of relevant issues subsequently (near the beginning of my journey here and here, and also here). How rapidly time moves on. The pandemic, such a significant event for all of us at the time, seems to have faded from the collective memory so quickly. Maybe this is a testimony to the rapid dissipation of the fear and dislocation experienced at the beginning of the crisis by the development and deployment of amazingly effective vaccines in super-quick time (something else that has rapidly faded from the collective memory). Like many others I altered course as we were emerging from the pandemic (although the two were not particularly connected), and embarked on Union’s MTh programme. But then, a few weeks ago, along with fellow students, staff, families and supporters, we assembled in Bridgend for the annual graduation ceremony, marking the official end of my studies. So, before this too fades from the memory, I thought it would be worth reflecting again.

I had anticipated that it would be quite a different experience from the one that I had enjoyed forty years ago as an undergraduate then a PhD student in the University of Glasgow. Apart from anything else I was "all growed up” (at least in theory), and was a proper adult learner. The inevitable angst of my late teens and earlier twenties were long departed. I confess that I had thought that this might mean that this time round learning would be more of a solitary occupation. Although the MTh was composed of a number of modules that required attendance at “intensive weeks” on campus with fellow students, most of the time was actually spent toiling back at my desk in my own study. And yet the best learning is always done in community. So I had the privilege of making new friendships on campus, which once we were away from the campus were sustained by the now-obligatory WhatsApp group. Indeed we had two of these – one official and the other our “100% unofficial” group. While it would be nonsense to pretend this was the same as sitting in a library with a group of like-minded dedicated scholars for months, it turned out to be quite a good way of maintaining the group vibe. Would I have preferred a more complete campus experience? Perhaps. But us adult learners tend to accumulate lots of connections and responsibilities that make upping and relocating to a new place of study basically impossible.

All of us bar one were undertaking our studies part-time, and most of my student colleagues were combining their studies with ministry or other forms of employment. Again, this made the distance option the only viable option. I was in the privileged position of not having to worry about such matters and was glad I didn’t have to divide my time with lots of other things. My observation is that worked fine provided they were able to maintain study time, and that they paced their studies to fit into the time they had available. Where study time was encroached upon, then learning was impacted. What mass education rather obscures is that real learning cannot be rushed, it takes as long as it takes. And because we are all different, we learn in different ways and at different speeds. This has nothing to do with basic intelligence, and a lot to do with interest and discipline. Where all that is desired is a piece of paper, disconnected facts, a vague knowledge of the  propositions of others and the odd incoherent opinion, then study can be squeezed into odd pockets of time. But none of us were interested in this. And it would have ill-served the church at large that many of us had in mind as the eventual main beneficiary of our efforts.

We were, of course, all highly interested in these particular studies (theology isn’t called a vocation for nothing). For all of us, returning to such study was a demanding step, and for some a sacrificial one. We were highly motivated. Many of us had already read and thought quite widely in generally theological ways. And yet I think we all found that wide vistas of new material opened up before us under the guidance of those who taught us at Union. But in our exploration of these new lands (some much less familiar than others) we were able to explore together, indeed in a fellowship. This provided encouragement, comfort and stimulus. Lots more material to blog about in the future.

And a word too about our teachers. Having been one in another life, it would be remiss of me not to mention the high quality of teaching we benefited from. Across a series of taught modules, I had the impression of being taught by people who knew what they were talking about. People who have lived and reflected on the material they were passing on. One can tell. I have no doubt there is some Masters level teaching going on in UK institutions being delivered by put-upon postgraduates who would rather be doing something else. There is certainly room for postgraduates teaching Masters students. The good ones do it well, and we all had to start somewhere; this is no criticism of them as a group. But when it occurs simply because too many students have been recruited to a particular programme (usually for financial reasons), and someone has to teach them something, it is largely a waste of everyone’s time. And when it is really bad it becomes a disincentive to any real learning. We had none of that. We were well served by well-prepared and thoughtful lecturers, who clearly took their task seriously. As a result, the MTh was often what education at its best is – inspiring. And it generated that desire to know more.

There were challenges of course. Some of my colleagues who had been away from academia for a while were rather freaked out by some of the requirements that had to be met. Chief among these were the assignments that were required for assessment. There is no doubt that academic writing is a skill that has to be mastered. Some essentials, such as appropriate referencing, strike normal human beings as overly prescriptive and time consuming to no good end. But there is a good end, primarily the clear citation of sources so that they can be checked and consulted. There is nothing worse that reading a really good argument, in which really interesting material has been analysed or synthesised (or both), and then being completely thwarted in investigating further because the sources haven’t been referenced properly or fully. This simply subverts proper inquiry. And it also  denies those who have preceded us of their proper recognition. While there are good pragmatic reasons for referencing, at root it is a matter of integrity. So while I would not claim that I was exactly happy to have to spend the odd afternoon grappling with the requirements for the citation of sources in the Chicago Manual of Style (17^th Edition!), I recognised its necessity. And I think some of my colleagues came to as well. But this was a minor wrinkle, the memory of which is more than matched by so many more interesting incidents and experiences.

So, farewell Union chums. But rather than the end of an era, it is perhaps more like the inauguration and early stages of a new one. And one that I’m now better equipped for. More theology to come then....

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…..