Tea and the Slippery Slope

I happen to like tea. I prefer black tea - a blend of orange pekoe and broken orange pekoe that most Americans would call "English Breakfast Tea." I like it piping hot. In fact, the hotter the better otherwise the tea will not infuse properly and the leaves will rise in the cup. Yes, I brew it in the cup, mainly because that's how I like it. I just have to remember not to drain the cup! In my humble opinion tea should have milk in it, and it should not be flavored. Blackcurrant, mango, and mint may be wonderful flavors for soft drinks, but they should not be allowed to contaminate tea. It goes without saying that the words "iced" and "tea" should not be used in the same sentence, sweetened or unsweetened.

Does that make me a tea-snob, or (as someone once called me) a tea-afficianado? No, it just means that I prefer my tea the way I have been drinking it since I was a small boy. I'm not going to judge your preferences, but neither am I going to apologize for mine. I just happen to like my tea good and strong and very hot!

Other people take their tea differently. In China, Gaiwan Tea has full green leaves floating in the cup. In Japan, Sencha is green tea that remains unfermented. Other traditions predominate in other areas. Millions of people enjoy their favorite drink in many different ways. And that's fine. To accept this, we have to have a basic understanding of cultural relativism. Different cultures have different ways of doing things. It's good to know that we are not all the same. Who knows, I might try iced pomegranate tea one day and like it. It's not very probable, but it might happen.

The problem comes when cultural relativism becomes ethical relativism. Let's imagine that, in order to produce their favorite type of tea, the citizens of Pomerania require that all of their left-handed children be taken from their parents, trained to climb to the tops of the trees to gather the youngest, most succulent leaves. Ethical relativism says that, since different cultures have different moral beliefs, we should not judge the Pomeranians. They have their method of producing tea and we have ours. That's just the way it is.

Ethical relativism tends to degenerate, over time, into ethical scepticism, which proposes that there are no absolute moral rules. If the citizens of Pomerania decide to kidnap children from our country and to force them into slavery, we still can't judge them, because absolute moral rules are impossible to prove. All that we can do it to prevent their capture, or rescue them. We will do this, not because we judge the Pomeranian tea-manufacturing process to be immoral, but because we value our children. With regard to ethical norms, we remain sceptical.

Ethical scepticism tends to degenerate, over time, into ethical nihilism, in which there are thought to be no moral rules at all. The Pomeranians may not only steal our children, they may also sacrifice them to the tea-gods after the harvest, adding their blood to the brew! As nihilists we will be unable to do anything, other than exert a superior military force. Morally, we could not challenge the Pomeranians. We could not describe them as "evil," since evil does not exist. We could not judge them, since there would be no standard we could bring to bear. No universal principle would guide us. No holy book would determine right from wrong.

* * * * * * * *

Of course this is all a bad dream. Cultural relativism does not need to become ethical relativism, which does not need to become ethical scepticism, which does not need to become ethical nihilism. And this conversation is not about tea.

Encompassing Prayer

I can't resist adding one, brief stanza to show how much I appreciate George Herbert. It's taken from a collection of poems known as The Temple, which was entrusted to his old friend Nicholas Ferrar (the founder of the Little Gidding community) as Herbert was on his deathbed. It was subsequently published and became a firm favorite, influencing later poets such as Vaughan and Coleridge. Here's the stanza in question.

Enrich, Lord, heart,
hands, mouth in me
with faith, with hope
and charity,

that I may run, rise,

rest in Thee.

I picked up my copy of The Temple in Cambridge, when I was at college. In fact I believe I bought it in a second hand store on Trinity Street, which is rather appropriate given that Herbert was at Trinity College. He secured a fellowship there in 1614. He was well known for his classical scholarship and his musical abilities (he played the lute and the viol). A few years later he became the Public Orator of the university and would probably have ended up at the Court of King James, except for the monarch's untimely death.

Herbert ended up being ordained. Unlike many of his contemporaries, however, he took his work seriously. He published A Priest in the Temple in 1652, which gives a sober and balanced account of the responsibilities of a clergyman. It has been very influential.

St. Peter's Church, Fugglestone.

Herbert spent all of his ministry in the same place. In 1630 he was persuaded, by Archbishop Laud, to accept the living of Fugglestone with Bemerton, near Salisbury, in the South of England. He spent the remainder of his short life devoted to his flock and to prayer.

It's commonplace nowadays to sneer at the Parish model of Church governance. Under this system the country is divided up into parishes and the clergy have responsibility for everyone who lives within a given geographic area. The plan assumes, of course, that just about everyone is Christian. There are obvious problems. It can degenerate into Erastianism, in which the church becomes the lackey of the state. Even if this doesn't happen, it can lead to too close an association between church and state. The prophetic function of the church can suffer. Resentments against secular leaders can be translated into anti-clericalism. But there is also something attractive about the parish model. It speaks of the all-encompassing nature of God, and the need for the church to reach out to all. At its best it is a genuine attempt to influence the whole of society with the Gospel. And perhaps it would work: if we were all gifted with the gentle spirit of George Herbert.

Making Drudgery Divine

George Herbert (1593-1633), whose sweet spirit still shines through his verse, once wrote:

A servant with this clause
Makes drudgery divine;
Who sweeps a room, as for Thy laws,
Makes that and th' action fine.

Herbert's point was that even the most menial, repetitive of tasks can be a source of personal satisfaction if we regard our work as being done "as for the Lord." The first stanza of the poem expresses the same thought:

Teach me, my God and King,
In all things Thee to see,
And what I do in anything
To do it as for Thee.

Someone once called this attitude "the sanctification of the commonplace"; it is the perfect antidote to boredom.


Don't you get tired of hearing how bored people are? My sainted Grandmother Taylor used to say,"Those who are bored have usually done nothing to deserve it!" Then she would grin and go back to cleaning her tiny home. Her attitude was decidedly Victorian (which is what she was, since she was born in 1900 when Victoria still reigned). Grandma had a very high view of the value of work. I don't think she was ever bored. At twelve years of age she went to work in the weaving shed at her local cotton mill in Blackburn, Lancashire. She was a 'piecer,' crawling beneath the flying shuttles, perilously close to the unguarded machinery, reaching through the moving threads to 'piece' together those that had broken. It must have been terrifying for a child. Maybe it was the elements of risk that kept it from being tedious.
On the other hand, perhaps Grandma realized that she had a job to do, and that she might as well do it to the best of her ability. She would say, "You can't be busy and bored." I think she was right. No job needs to be boring if it is well done.
Our society is in danger of regarding work as a necessary evil that must be endured. Increasingly, we are defining ourselves by our leisure, not by our emloyment, nor by our relationship to God. We no longer live to work; neither do we work to live; we live to play. As Neil Postman put it, we are "amusing ourselves to death."
To be fair, changes in employment practice have probably contributed to this change in attitude. For example, in our community, in Texas, it used to be the case that a job in the chemical industry was a job for life. It was not unusual for those employed by a chemical company to stay there for forty years or more. Not so today. A changing world economy has led to some changes, but others have arisen as a result of a different management culture. The perception is that workers are more expendable nowadays. Older employees are sometimes sacrificed because they cost more, or because a provision in their pension plan is about to be triggered. Camaraderie and satisfaction in a shared enterprise seem to have disappeared. Work has become a struggle to survive. We are, as Falconer put it, captives "fettered to the oar of gain."
What can be done? Are we condemned to live in misery, equally fearful of both unemployment and work? There are two things that can help us, I believe. They are: a recovery of pride and purpose in our work; and, the imagination. It may sound terribly naive, but wouldn't it help if we were able to regard our work as our vocation? If we believe that we have been given certain talents and abilities, and if we are able to employ these, to some degree, at work, then should we not regard that work as God-given? This is what George Herbert was getting at. In the same way, Paul urged his readers to be "not slothful in business... serving the Lord," (Romans 12:11) which implies that the performance of every day duties is serving the Lord and earning His approval. My boss may not appreciate me; my supervisor may not remember my name; but God sees my labor, and smiles. If nothing else, this attitude shoul help me to recover a sense of personal dignity. Yes, I am worth something! I may not make much difference, but the difference I do make can be a powerful witness for good. There are enough cynics out there - the world does not need another one. I should work hard, do my best, and if I can help to make someone's day just a little better, then I should do it!



The second antidote to terminal weariness is the imagination. When my imagination is crushed, when the child in me no longer wonders what lies around the next corner, then of course I am bored. In a sense, I am bored when I become too self-satisfied. The self-centered person often falls prey to self-pity. The windows of the imagination become shuttered and the soul shrivels up. When I cease to treat life as a great adventure, when there are no more mysteries to be explored, then my life becomes sordid and dull.
But if my imagination is allowed to flower and flourish then, even in the dullest of places, I can still find something new. I will not be an observer of the drama of life, I will be a participant, and I shall play my part with gusto, and my days will be richer as a result.


Robert Louis Stevenson (a man who lived every moment of life) concluded his morning prayer with these words:
"When the day returns, return to us as our sun and comforter, and call us up with morning faces and morning hearts, eager to labour, eager to be happy if happiness shall be our portion, and if the day be marked for sorrow, strong to endure."
With a sense of pride and purpose, and a quickened imagination, even drudgery can be made divine.

This is the famous stone
That turneth all to gold;
For that which God doth touch and own
Cannot for less be told.

Dragonflies and Death

If you are in need of a good laugh let me recommend the Agnes Browne Trilogy by Brendan O'Carroll. It's been described as Angela's Ashes without the misery. The books are set in working class Dublin, beginning in the 1960's. Raw and earthy, with the kind of humor I remember so well from my own upbringing in the North of England, O'Carroll's tales are both evocative and skilfully wrought. The author weaves together such disparate themes as abuse and alcoholism, adolescent angst and adult alienation. Hidden within the humor lies one of the tenderest love stories you will read anywhere. The Irish seem to have a knack for moving seamlessly between pain and laughter, tragedy and comedy. If you can get beyond some of the foul language, the books are well worth reading.

Many things in the books delighted me; some made me laugh out loud; but several things surprised me. First, there is very little sectarianism in the story. One of the incidental characters is a Jewish businessman who has fallen upon hard times. His generosity is in sharp contrast to the callous violence of his son. But, in the narrative of the Browne clan, that son is just a villain, not a Jewish villain. I have no idea whether or not this is an accurate representation of working-class Dublin in the late twentieth century. Given the other prejudices that are given expression in the books, particularly the small-minded hatemongering of the skinheads, this comes as a surprise. O'Carroll makes his characters generally sympathetic to a family member who turns out to be homosexual (Agnes wonders when he is going to come out of the wardrobe...) but it is still a member of the family who almost kills him when he goes 'queer bashing.' There's a certain tension here. Sectarian violence is largely controlled in the Browne Trilogy, presumably for the sake of the story. The streets are, by and large, safe. In a society in which alcohol abuse is such a way of life, I'm not sure how authentic this really is.

Secondly, in the same way, there are no anti-British themes explored. The young men go to England to find work. One of them dies there, the victim of both the avarice of others and his own appetite for heroin. A mere fifty years after the Easter Uprising I would have expected more antipathy toward the old enemy. The 'Troubles' are only mentioned once, in passing. Yet this was the period during which the green of the South and the orange of the six counties of the North were both stained with blood.

Finally, there is no anti-clericalism either. One very serious nun is mocked. Her false teeth are knocked out with a convenient cucumber, which is no less than she deserves for her harsh treatment of the brood of children entrusted to her care. But a priest, working with the St. Vincent de Paul Society, is praised. Most of the major events of Agnes' life, and those of her children, are marked by the church. And yet the story contains scarcely any mention of the Christian faith. Whatever Catholicism remains hardly influences the Brownes. They lie, steal, cheat and fornicate without reference to a distinctly Christian moral code. They are hard-working and generous, and they are loyal to one another (although they also fight incessantly), but their virtues are not specifically Christian. As the story unfolds, we watch them adopting the values of a godless world. At first, for example, Agnes is wounded when Simon decides to co-habit and not to marry; later, she has no problems taking her over-sexed French lover to her bed. Perhaps the all-pervasive public religion of Agnes' youth has lost so much influence that, by the end of her life, the Roman Catholic Church is simply irrelevant and is therefore ignored.

An illustration of this is the attitude to death displayed by members of the Browne family. An assumption is made that beyond death there is a place of pure happiness, call it heaven if you will, that has no relation to morality, or to God. When Agnes suffers an aneurism and slips into a coma she has a vivid dream of her old friend Marion, dead for 25 years. In her dream, hanging between life and death, Marion tells her that in this secular heaven the bingo halls are open all day and she can drink as much cider as she likes. The only rule is that one cannot see from one realm to the next. Marion thinks that it is a stupid rule, and says so. Apparently one can also swear in heaven.

Earlier in the final book, The Granny, Dermot Browne explains death to his son, Cormac, by means of a parable. He tells the child that death is like a grub, rising through the water of a pond to become a dragonfly. All the grubs in the pond wonder what lies beyond the surface. Eventually, one brave grub volunteers to climb a blade of grass to see what is there, and then to come back to tell the rest of them. He climbs until he feels the sun upon his back and then, a wondrous thing happens, he turns into a magnificent dragonfly, decked out in yellow, green and blue. He cannot go back to tell the others so, instead, he flaps his four wings and flies away into the sunshine with a big smile on his face. "So you see, Cormac," says Dermot, "that's what 'died' is. Your mammy has become a dragonfly." (The Granny p.140)

It's a pretty story to tell a six year old, but it is also nonsense. Without the assurance of faith and the knowledge of the resurrection we have absolutely no reason to tell our children that there is a happy land, far, far away. And what exactly does it mean to say, as O'Carroll does on at least two occasions, that at death we become dragonflies? Don't dragonflies die too? Aren't thousands of them snapped up as soon as they emerge from the water, long before they can fly, smiling, into a welcoming sky?

Hope, without Christ, is empty. It is not much more than wishful thinking. It cannot comfort the dying, it cannot relieve the pain of those who are left behind. Sentiment can never be a substitute for a living faith.

I'm not sure I want to be a dragonfly when I die, but I do want to be with Christ. Wherever He is will be heaven indeed.

* * * * * * * * * *

The Agnes Browne Trilogy consists of The Mammy; The Chisellers; and, The Granny. All are published by Plume, a member of the Penguin Putnam Group.

Mud and Glory

I've been reading Paul Reed's study of the struggle for control of the village of Combles, France, during the battle of the Somme. "Combles" makes for grim reading. By 1916, the village had been under German occupation for two years. The German Army, steamrollering across Picardy, had finally been halted by the French on the Somme. Stalemate ensued. The front lines were handed over to the British in the Fall of 1915 and the war of attrition began in earnest.

Many of the British soldiers who contested this tiny, bloody patch of rural France were from the London Regiment. When war was declared, in 1914, the British Army could muster only 250,000 men, compared to approximately five million in the German Army. Volunteer or Territorial units were swiftly formed in Britain. Some of them volunteered to serve overseas. Like many other geographically based regiments, the "London" had a distinctly local flavor. Men from the same street, factory, school, club, or church often joined up together. Many of them served together, and died together.

The London Regiment, though never at full strength, was supposed to have 28 battalions bearing such evocative names as: the London Rifle Brigade (5th), the Post Office Rifles (8th), the London Scottish (14th), and the Artist's Rifles (28th). Class distinctions differentiated the battalions at first, but these distinctions tended to disappear as units were decimated, merged, and re-formed.

Near Combles, two small areas of woodland were fought over inch by inch. Leuze Wood ("Lousy Wood") and Bouleaux Wood ("Bully Wood") soon could not boast a standing tree between them. The land was taken, lost, and retaken. Bodies were buried in the mud, only to be exhumed by subsequent bombardments. Young men in their prime were subjected to appalling conditions, then sent to their deaths. Hundreds of lives were lost seeking control of twenty yards of dirt. When the Kensingtons and the London Scottish moved up to take over from the Royal Irish Fusiliers, they saw that the whole battlefield was covered by the remains of the dead.

"The ground just over the ridge of Death Valley was scattered with the Irish dead, mainly young fellows who appeared to have been killed by concussion, tiny streaks of blood having from their ears and noses. Others had been killed by machine gun and shrapnel fire... One middle aged Irishman was sitting upright in a shell hole, one side of his head shining pink, where half his scalp had been torn off... at Wedge Wood... this trench was full of German dead, Prussian Guards. For some particular reason they were minus their tunics, wearing new white vests. The bodies were lying several deep, and we had to walk over them in order to proceed along the trench."

After several weeks of fighting the British unleashed their secret weapon, the tanks of the Heavy Branch Machine Gun Corps. This was the first time that the lumbering behemoths would be used in military history. Although, initially, they spread panic among the Germans, they were not an unqualified success. As with just about everything else, the tanks became stuck in the mud.

"The field of battle was a field of mud; the resting area of the division was a field of mud; the roads and tracks were rivers of mud; anyone can paint a picture of the Battle of the Somme provided that he can paint miles of mud. And the Army had simply blasted its way forward so that the shell holes cut one another in the mud."

On September 26, 1916 Combles fell to men of the 56th (London) Division. It would be more accurate to say that was was left of the village fell into British hands. Almost every building had been destroyed. The church had been flattened, the town hall had disappeared, the railway station ceased to exist. Only the catacombs, stretching beneath the buildings, providing refuge for its defenders, remained relatively unscathed.

One young private, Stuart Dolden of the London Scottish, was glad to get out of the place where so many of his comrades had died. His abiding memory was of the mud.

"We were all filled with unbounding joy when we realised that at last our backs had been turned on the Somme, and all its horrors and miseries. The one outstanding feature of the Somme was the mud. Living with it around one, day and night, seemed to tap one's vitality. We had already experienced severe shelling, trenches and all the incidences of warfare on other sectors of the line, and so it became more a question of degree, but after our trip to the Somme I realised what a truly demoralising affect mere mud could have."

The village was retaken, briefly, by the Germans in March of 1918, but returned to Allied hands later that same year.

* * * * * * *

There is an immediacy to the story of Combles that transcends the years. The absolute horror that is war is not shown on maps with colored arrows for the movement of troops. War must be studied through the experience of those who struggled through the mud. There are lessons to be learned, even from a Lousy Wood, somewhere in France.

Survivor or Servant?

I enjoy "Survivor." It's getting a little long in the tooth as far as TV programs go, but it's still entertaining. If you have been on a different planet for the last few years and haven't seen it - here's how it works: twenty or so people, of various ages and from varied backgrounds, are brought together in some obscure, exotic place. They are pitted against one another in a series of challenges, competing for the million dollar prize that is awarded to the sole survivor. Although they begin the game in "tribes," the contestants must learn to form their own alliances if they are to advance. As the game progresses, they must endure physical hardships, including hunger. They must use their physical and mental strength, and their relational skills, in order to outwit, outplay and outlast the other contestants. Frequently, in the pressure-cooker environment of reality TV, they display the worst of human nature. The show is notorious for secret alliances and double-crossing. Len Sweet comments that, ultimately, "the most self-directed, self-motivated, self-absorbed, self-important individual becomes the final Survivor."

In an article in "Youth Culture," Walt Mueller writes about some of the lessons of "Survivor":

"1. Survivors look out for themselves. When you cooperate, it's to advance your interests. Not because it is helpful to others, but because it helps you. Forget those who can't help you. Don't bother with them. They are not a good investment of your time.

2. Survivors sleep with one eye open. Since everyone is out for himself/herself, no one can be trusted. Surviving the harshness of the environment is the true challenge.

3. Survivors must get used to being lonely. If you can't trust others, you can't be real or true or share true intimacy with them. It's a world ruled by the Miranda rule: You have the right to remain silent, for what you say can and will be used against you.

4. A survivor world is win-lose. Only one can win, the others are cast-offs. There is no common good. No common ground other than self-interest."

Now, it's only a TV show, and most people are capable of suspending judgment in such cases, but what worries me is that at least some viewers may be adopting these principles to their own lives. Especially in a world experiencing the worst recession in decades, it must be tempting to adopt a survivalist attitude. This isn't all bad. There are good lessons to be learned in terms of rising to meet the challenge, not giving up, and working with others to achieve some common goal. But at the same time, clearly "Survivor" teaches that our primary responsibility must always be fundamentally self-focussed.

That's very different to the Gospel. As we gather as God's people, we are to learn and to employ the principles of servanthood. Living as a Christian means rejecting the dictatorship of the ego; it means following the example of the One who came, "not to be served but to serve, and to lay down His life as a ransom for many" (Mark 10:45).

"Survivor" is fun, but it does make me wonder what we are teaching our children and young people. Where are they getting their values and their worldview, from Jeff Probst, or Jesus?

Doubting Doubt

A few weeks ago I read A.N.Wilson's splendid little book London: A Short History. This is really an architectural history of the capital city; I highly recommend it. I thought, at the time, that the author was not as scathing about London's spiritual heritage as I had expected. In fact, in places I found a wistful longing for the age of faith.

I had expected a tirade. Perhaps, like Ingersoll, Wilson would have lamented the ignorance displayed by a forest of steeples; or, like Cowper there would have been some oblique reference to "dark, satanic mills," that is, the non-conformist chapels of the early Victorian age. Instead I found Wilson praising Wren's efforts to rebuild London's churches following the Great Fire of 1666, or lamenting their loss during the Blitz. And this surprised me. Surely, this was the same A.N.Wilson who poured scorn on the Christian faith in God's Funeral, or ridiculed anti-intellectualism in Jesus: A Life?

Indeed, it was. An apologist for a post-Christian worldview, Wilson had moved from Anglicanism to Roman Catholicism to scepticism. His views were widely read and very influential. So, why didn't he take any potshots at Christians in London?

The answer may be that A.N.Wilson was in the process of returning to the Christian faith. According to an interesting article in the New Statesman, Wilson has now turned 180 degrees, and has decided that Christ is risen. He atrributes this to "the confidence I have gained with age."

Good for him. It takes courage to admit that you have been wrong. It was courageous of him, in the first place, to renounce the faith in which he had been raised, and to concentrate upon his doubts. Too many people do this as an excuse for their behavior. In Bertrand Russell's autobiography he admits that one of the reasons he rejected the Christian faith, as a student, was that it was easier for him to get girls that way (and, presumably, to ditch the guilt). I've come across any number of people who have suddenly had doubts at exactly the time that they are tempted to abandon Christian morality. It's strange that they often speak so fervently of intellectual struggles, whereas in reality the struggle usually had more to do with another part of their anatomy. The sadness is, of course, that once renounced it's hard to return. Hard, but not impossible, as A.N.Wilson has now proven.

Often, those who really do doubt the central tenets of the Christian faith (as opposed to those who say that they do for ulterior motives), grow tired of living within a system that seems to be made up, entirely, of negations. There may be something exhilerating about saying, "I think Christ died on the cross, and his bones are buried somewhere in Palestine!" But with what is the resurrection faith to be replaced? Like those Victorian secularists who returned to the faith of their youth, A.N.Wilson has grown tired of nihilistic atheism. Now he says that those who doubt God are like "people who have no ear for music or who have never been in love."

I hope that Wilson will write a book about his return to faith, and that he will take the time and trouble to counter the arguments he used in some of his earlier works. Now it's time for the Holy Spirit to work on a few others - like Bart Ehrman and Richard Dawkins. Could it be that the tide is beginning to turn, and that Dover Beach will soon be covered once again?

See New Statesman article http://www.newstatesman.com/religion/2009/04/conversion-experience-atheism

Also, more popular article in Britain's Daily Mail http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-1169145/Religion-hatred-Why-longer-cowed-secular-zealots.html

And, for those who need it: Dover Beach by Matthew Arnold http://www.victorianweb.org/authors/arnold/writings/doverbeach.html

Seeking Empty Space

Today's reading from the Aidan cycle, in the Northumbria Community's Book of Celtic Daily Prayer, is taken from Gift from the Sea by Anne Morrow Lindbergh. Anne writes about needing to try to find balance in life, no matter what forces tend to pull one off center. She finds no easy answers, but she shares a clue - shells from the sea.

There has always been a temptation, in the Christian life, to renounce the world and to retreat into isolation. It's an understandable reaction to what can be a godless and uncaring world. During the so-called Dark Ages, following the fall of Rome, many Christians scattered to the fringes of society. Some found safety and security in monasteries, others escaped to live in hermitages. Modern Evangelicals have tended to speak disparagingly of this flight from the world as an evasion of responsibility, but we have not been immune from it ourselves.

On the other hand, some Christians become so involved in the world that they have no time left, no space available, within which to seek the still small voice. Often, they become activists, running from one good cause to another, while their spirits are starved within them. Eventually, when prayer is crowded out, they become indistinguishable from the world in which they are called to be salt and light.

How can we maintain balance between Christian activism, which is in the world, and Christian pietism, which is not? How can we prevent ourselves from lurching between extremes? Must retreat and engagement always be mutually exclusive?

Anne's answer lies in the simplification of life - cutting out some of the distractions. "The answer," she writes, "is neither in total renunciation of the world, nor in total acceptance of it." We must seek the balance between solitude and communion, between experiencing God on the mountaintop and serving Him in the valley.

At least part of the answer lies in the deliberate simplification of our lives. We have too few blank pages on our calendars. We are becoming slaves to the electronic organization of our days. We feel guilty if we have even half-an-hour during which nothing is scheduled. We are too busy, too over-committed. Are we afraid of silence? Have we devalued prayer?

A walk on the beach will prove that there are many pretty sea-shells. When we are young, we try to collect them all, but we are soon overcome by the volume. There aren't enough window sills upon which to display them all. They end up, quietly festering, in a plastic bag at the bottom of a closet. But when we are older we discover that one need not collect them all. They are more beautiful, more precious, and more significant if they are few. Our lives can become cluttered far too easily, even with goodness and beauty, if we have too much. Maturity consists in learning that limits are good.

Perhaps we would have less difficulty balancing the pendulum between retreat from the world and return to it, if we had more empty spaces in which to seek God's will. "My life at home, I begin to realize, " writes Anne, "lacks this quality of signifcance, and therefore of beauty, because there is so little empty space."

Shame

Some absolutely horrifying news is beginning to emerge from Dublin. An inquiry into conditions in Catholic residential facilities in Ireland has found that church leaders knew that sexual abuse was "endemic," but that they did nothing to prevent it. The 'Child Abuse Commission' has determined that physical and emotional abuse and neglect were features of such institutions. About 35,000 Irish children were placed in religious care during a period of 60 years. Some of the children were orphans, others were illegitimate, many were subjected to systematic abuse.

One man reports that he was sexually abused from the age of three, either by the Christian Brothers who ran the establishment, or by older boys. A girl reports that she spent her days doing laundry, getting up at 6.00 a.m. to attend mass. She was locked into her room at night with a bucket and an iron bed; the window was barred, almost like she was incarcerated. Her only 'crime,' was to be the child of an unwed mother. Incidentally, that mother died while her daughter was 'in care.' The authorities did not think it necessary to inform her.

"I have absolutely no faith in the Catholic Church. I am a Christian but I am not a Catholic. I left my Catholic religion at the industrial school gates," said one victim. His reaction to the trauma of abuse is not untypical. How much damage has been done to the Church by this appalling behavior? How many more will leave when the full story is revealed?

Strong words are coming from some Catholic leaders. The Most Reverend Vincent Nichols, the leader of the Roman Catholic Church in England and Wales, said that those who perpetrated violence and abuse should be held to account, "no matter how long ago it happened." He continued, "Every time there is a single incident of abuse in the Catholic Church, it is a scandal." The leader of the Catholic Church in Ireland, Cardinal Sean Brady, said he was "profoundly sorry and deeply ashamed that children suffered in such awful ways in these institutions." At least somebody is showing some integrity.

There can be no excuse for the abuse, and there can be no excuse for protecting those who perpetrated it. Justice must be done, and be seen to be done.

And those who damaged so many lives would do well to heed the grim warning of Scripture. "It would be better for him to be thrown into the sea with a millstone tied around his neck than for him to cause one of these little ones to sin. So watch yourselves." Luke 17:2-3. Whether or not the Irish authorities manage to track down and prosectute those who are responsible, the perpetrators will still have to face the righteous anger of the One who said "Let the children come to me. Don't prevent them, for of such is the Kingdom of God." Luke 18:16

Report at: http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/europe/8059826.stm

Or http://itn.co.uk/e41a5e1febbbd9096a4cba0baeacea4a.html

Ill Met By Moonlight

William Stanley Moss' account of his exploits in Crete during World War II makes fitting reading for Memorial Day. Operating in occupied territory, with the help of local anadartes, Moss, and a small team of special operations commandos, managed to kidnap a German General and, somehow, spirit him off the island. What ismost interesting about the story is that almost all of it is taken from a journal written by the author as events unfolded. There is a startling immediacy about the language. Several times the author relates that he has to stop writing because the light is failing, or because a local shepherd has just brought the band something to eat.

Two things struck me:

First, I was appalled by the senseless violence of some among the occupying force. In one incident, a Gestapo officer has to swerve his car on a country road and stop in order to avoid hitting a shepherd boy crossing the road with his sheep. Seeing that his car has sustained a slight scratch, the officer beckons for the shy child to come to him. When he does as he is told, the officer promptly breaks the boys arm across his knee as punishment.

Second, and in contrast, the story contains a remarkable sense of shared humanity between combatants. The General, although obviously shamed by his capture, only rarely demonstrates the haughtiness of his office. A classical scholar, the son of a pastor, he is able to exchange Greek aphorisms with his captors. He shares the same bottle of raki, and pulls at the same blankets to escape the cold. He may be a patriot, but he is not an idealist. He serves his country, not the Party.

This is the sadness of war. Often, the only thing that separates the soldiers of opposing armies is the color of their uniforms. In one, telling, incident, Moss and his villanous band of Cretan resistance fighters celebrate Easter Day in the mountains, singing songs of resurrection in several languages (and, one suspects, several keys). Surely this is a foretaste of the Kingdom of Heaven, where every tongue sings praise to the Lamb, and war shall be no more.

Angels in the Gloom

Anne Perry's book, bearing this title, is the third in her series following the Reavley family during the First World War. The main character is Captain Joseph Reavley, a chaplain who has received the Military Cross for bravery in rescuing the wounded at Ypres. He is sent home to recouperate, following an injury, and there becomes embroiled in scullduggery concerning a secret naval weapon that could turn the tide of war. Perry's presentation of the characters is largely sympathetic. It makes a pleasant change to come across a representation of a 'man of the cloth' which is not horribly caricatured. Unfortunately, she reverts to type in her description of Kerr, the village vicar, who is a sorry excuse for a clergyman - weak, bumbling, and totally ineffectual. It's easy to see, also, that Perry has a horror of warfare. She does not glorify bloodshed, as do so many others. Neither does she minimise the courage of the common soldier.

What suprises me about the story is the theological hinge concerning the existence of God. Kerr, who has never been anywhere near the Front, cracks under the strain of comforting those who have lost loved ones. He finds himself with nothing to say, beyond inappropriate platitudes about King, Country, and Glory. Reavely, on the other hand, goes as far to accept, on at least two occasions, that he is not sure about the existence of God. But then he goes on to state his rationale: It is not about us. When we bring comfort to the bereaved we are not to think about our doubts, but their needs.

In the end, though he may entertain reservations about whether or not God is there, or interested in the affairs of men, Reavley contends that he is absolutely sure of this: that the things for which Christ stood, like honor and truth and love, are true for all times.

I've never actually heard anyone expound this doctrine; perhaps it was more prevalent in an age which actually knew what Christ stood for. It sounds a little like the religionless Christianity that gained some adherents in the 1960's when, building on the works of Friedrich Neitzsche, Thomas Altizer and others wrote about "Christian Atheism." Altizer taught that it is no longer possible to believe in a transcendent god, but that the spirit of Christ is immanent wherever his people gather. In this way, we may continue to revere Christ, even without God.

(By the way, don't you just love the duct tape holding this guy's raincoat together?)

Here's the problem - and not just for Captain Reavley - Christ believed in God, indeed He understood Himself to be the only begotten Son of the Father. When the disciples came asking who He was He accepted Peter's belief, that He was the Christ, the son of the living God; neither did He rebuke Thomas who greeted his risen Savior as "My Lord and my God."

Maybe Anne Perry does not accept the divinity of Christ; apparently she is a Mormon. But even this does not solve the problem. Even if Christ was not "the image of the invisible God," that same God was still His primary point of reference. Jesus of Nazareth was who He was because of how He understood His relationship with His Heavenly Father. So, to take concepts like honor and truth and love, and to ascribe them to a godless Jesus, is do strip them of meaning. What does 'love' mean without the narrative of redemption? We can give the word any meaning we choose, but we cannot force our interpretation upon Jesus. And if we attempt to divorce elements of His teaching from His understanding of the nature of God, we do violence to the Gospel.

Is there a warning there for today's church? When our understanding of the Christian faith is more anthropological then theological, then it is fundamentally flawed.

Men of War

Patrick O'Brian's little book on Nelson's Navy allows us to grasp something of what it was like to serve at sea, two hundred years ago. O'Brian explains the bewildering terminology of dog watches and carronades, of mizenmasts and studding sails. It's all very confusing to a land lubber, but essential to an understanding of an incredibly efficient maritime war machine.

One side of my wife's family hails from South West England, from Devon and Cornwall. Many of her ancestors served at sea. Lesley's great-grandfather died at the Battle of Coronel, off Brazil, in 1916, the Royal Navy's first serious set-back in over 150 years.

Life at sea was far from easy. The hours were brutal. The food was worse. The joke in O'Brian's 'Master and Commander,' made into a movie a few years ago, is based on how things really were. Jack Aubrey, the post-captain, asks his friend, the surgeon, to choose between two weevils (grubs) that have fallen from a ship's biscuit. Maturin, as a scientist, answers that there would be more nutrition in the larger of the two. Aubrey replies (of course) that one should always choose the lesser of two weevils.

Sailors just ate them. They also ate the larger white grubs, called bargemen, that appeared when the biscuits had deteriorated further. Rats, known as 'millers' because of their dusty coats, were caught, skinned, and laid out for sale. Everything was washed down with copious quantities of grog (rum mixed with water and lemon juice). It was a hard life with little sleep and less pay, until a 'prize' was taken. Unless claimed by the Crown, the value of enemy ships captured by the Royal Navy was divided among the crew. Naturally, the officers took the lion's share, but nevertheless, in a morning's work a sailor could earn the equivalent of 100 years pay. This didn't happen often. Unfortunately, poverty and privation were much more likely outcomes of life in the 'senior service.'

There's something very attractive about the thought of a close-knit, well-trained group of men, serving together over an extended period, whose lives were regulated by the rhythm of the sea. It's interesting to know how one's ancestors lived.

One of the oldest metaphors for the Christian Church is the ship. What does this teach us?

- there are tasks to be done;

- we all have talents to share;

- we must work together to achieve anything of value;

- the voyage need not always be easy;

- depend on the Pilot;

- be careful what you eat...

Bias at the Old Bailey

Horace Rumpole: barrister at law, of Equity Court, the Temple, London; resident with spouse Hilda ('She Who Must Be Obeyed') at 25B Froxbury Court, Gloucester Road, is a larger-than-fiction character who has given pleasure to millions. With his less-than-salubrious hat perched on his head, a glass of Chateau Thames Embankment in his hand, a small cigar protruding from his pursed lips, Rumpole is, as Alan Coren once pointed out, "the best mock-heroic fatty since Falstaff." Whether facing the Mad Bull (Judge Roger Bullingham) down the Old Bailey, or working a small indecent exposure brief at the Uxbridge Magistrates Court, Rumpole is an English eccentric extraordinaire. Leo McKern, though Australian, was born to portray him.

At the same time, there is a burr beneath the saddle of John Mortimer's most celebrated creation. Behind the stories of the eternally junior barrister, perpetually passed-over for promotion to silk by someone with better connections (or less anti-social habits), lies a web of anti-Christian sentiment. John Mortimer's opinions, some might say prejudices, are not particularly well-disguised.

For example, in "Rumpole and the Rotten Apple," the prosecuting officer is called Superintendent Glazier. He is "a tall, rather pale officer with dark hair brushed straight back, wearing a blue suit and a Police Rugby Club tie." He claims that it is his Christian duty "to find a good word to say for all sorts of villains... but I can't stand a bent copper." On his lapel, the Superintendent wears a small pin, bearing the insignia of an organization known as "Police Witness to God." Rumpole compares Glazier to an officer in Cromwell's army, determined to stamp out corruption and backsliding. Of course, it comes as no surprise to discover that Glazier is the rotten apple, and that he has been deliberately framing an innocent fellow-officer. The implication is obvious - Christians are sanctimonious hypocrites.

Mortimer's treatment of "Soapy Sam" Ballard, the head of Chambers, is slightly less unsympathetic, but the picture he paints is still of a small-minded, arrogant man, more concerned about petty rules than justice, not averse to bending those rules to suit himself. Ballard is, naturally, an avid supporter of "The Lawyers as Churchgoers Society."

Rumpole, himself, is a son of the parsonage. His father, a Church of England vicar, did not, apparently, feel obliged to believe many of the 39Articles of Anglicanism. He detested Bible Class. However, since he had no other skills with which to feed his family, the elder Rumpole remained in his unfortunate profession. Once again the implication is clear - no thinking person could subscribe to the Christian faith. All that is left for Rumpole of the Old Bailey is a loveless marraige and a few choice phrases from the Oxford Book of English Verse.

Mortimer's intolerant dogmatism is as unattractive as it is unnecessary. Bias does not improve the stories; but it does tell us something about the author. Why do the television watchdogs tolerate such behavior? If the object of the author's scorn was castigated because of the color of his skin, or if the snide remarks referenced Islam, the books would be held in contempt. But because Mortimer's prejudice is anti-Christian, no-one seems to complain.

Imago Dei

There's a touching story, today, in our local paper, the Brazosport Facts. Apparently, a store owner in Angleton, the county seat, noticed a pigeon which had got stuck on a sign. Some sort of twine, tied around its leg, had become entangled in a sign. The poor bird kept struggling to break free, but only succeeded in making matters worse.
Soon, the police department, animal control officers, and representatives from a local animal rescue group, gathered in the street. With the help of a bucket truck the pigeon was rescued, and will now spend quality time recovering at the animal rescue center.
What a great story! The store owner called 911 because he couldn't think who else to call. And the police responded magnificently, just as one would expect in small town USA. For a brief time, Brazoria County's finest had their attention focused on the fortunes of a frightened young bird.

Unfortunately, the same paper told the story of Edy Joel Jimenez-Ulloa, a 25 year old man from Honduras whose body was found in a ditch not far from Angleton. His body had been bundled into two black trash bags and left, just like trash, at the side of a country road. As yet, there have been no arrests.

Does no one see the frightening incongruity of these two stories? One demonstrates all that is good about human beings, whose compassion can even extend to a frightened bird; the other story demonstrates all that is bad about human beings, whose malevolence can be deadly. In the former, we remember our inheritance. The divine spark flares, if only for a moment. In the latter, God's image is defaced. The spark gutters and dies. And the most frightening thing of all is that we see ourselves in both stories. The hands that heal and the hands that hurt are, far too frequently, one and the same. They are ours.




First story: http://www.thefacts.com/story.lasso?ewcd=7d4ad9694341ad29
Second story: http://www.thefacts.com/story.lasso?ewcd=2f15cbd2b0550251

Remember the Sabbath Day

It's hard not to feel good for Aaron and Joe Crabtree, two little boys who have been signed by Blackburn Rovers (world's greatest football team etc. etc.) Just eight and seven years old, the brothers were spotted training with a junior team in the North West of England. Despite the fact that their father is a Manchester United supporter, the boys were persuaded to sign up for Rovers. They will wear the blue and white halves and hope against hope to stay the course long enough to play for the famous old club. I hope to read about Aaron playing a creative role in midfield, and his brother knocking in the goals as Blackburn take the Premier league by storm in about 2025.

However, I can't help noticing that, since signing, they will be required to join their teammates twice a week, and that they will play other academies on Sunday mornings. Now, I know that Christian Education does not need to be on Sunday mornings, and that worship can be held at other times, but I suspect that these little boys, and thousands like them, will grow up not knowing anything about the Gospel.

When I look back at the rich benefits that I enjoyed as a child as a result of attending church and Sunday School, and when I think about how valuable the experience has been for my own children, I can't help but feel sad for Aaron and Joe. You can learn a lot through sports. Playing on a team helps to develop some of the lifeskills that every child needs to be successful in life. But what about those issues that sport cannot address? Can soccer help when Grandma is taken deathly ill? Can Little League teach a relationship with God?

As the tide of secularism rises, we can no longer assume that the children of our community possess even the most basic knowledge of the Christian faith. The Bible stories and themes that permeate literature are completely unknown. Some time ago, during a pre-marriage counselling session, I made a reference to the story of David and Goliath. The bride-to-be had no idea what I was talking about. Last year I had the privilege of leading to Christ a young person who had never heard the word 'gospel.' And when I asked some cub scouts to name the disciples I got blank stares, until one urchin said "Moses?"

Now, I know that a relationship with God is not just about head-knowledge, but it must contain some knowledge, surely? "God" is an empty concept unless it is informed by the grand narrative of salvation. Either that, or "God" is understood through the lens of folk-religion, a mosaic of meaning that may entertain, but cannot save.

I doubt that the Christian Church will be successful in moving society back to such reverence for Sunday that the day (or at least the morning) will be reserved for worship and Christian Education. However, I do think that Christian parents should take the lead in speaking out against scheduling that assumes that worship is not a high priority. I think it also means that churches will need to be creative in offering quality educational opportunities at a variety of different times. Perhaps parents will also have to resume primary responsibility for teaching their children the fundamentals of the faith. Otherwise, if we are not careful, all we shall be raising will be a generation of extraordinarily healthy pagans.

Read about Aaron and Joe in the Manchester Evening News http://www.manchestereveningnews.co.uk/news/s/1112684__football_brothers_do_the_double

On Hatred

"The Gods Will Have Blood" (Les Dieux Ont Soif) by Anatole France is a brief historical novel set during the French Revolution, in the fiteen months preceding the fall of Robespierre. The main character in the story is a sensitive, largely unsuccessful artist by the name of Evariste Gamelin. Slowly, Gamelin is drawn into the Jacobin terror machine. Appointed as a magistrate, he applies the principles of revolution, finds treason in every failure, and plays his part in sending hundreds to the guillotine.

France's story is a study in contrasts. Gamelin is, on the one hand, a faithful son, an ardent lover, and an amusing friend. On the other hand, he is cold-hearted and ruthless, using his power to settle personal scores, justifying abuse by invoking the good of La Patrie. Eventually, he arranges the murder of his brother-in-law, despite the pleas of his distraught sister. His mother does not even ask for clemency, recognizing what he has become. Brotteaux, the ci-devant aristocrat who makes marionettes and reads Lucretius like a breviary; Citizeness Rose Theverin, the superficial yet charming actress, whose ill-advised dalliances cause such grief; Father Longuemare, the former Barnabite, whose simple faith stands in marked contrast to Brotteaux's atheism; and Athenais, the child-prostitute, whose bravery overshadows them all - alternately defiant or resigned, every one of them is sacrificed on the altar of Gamelin's zeal. Over the proceedings of the tribunal, the murdered Marat, 'friend of the people,' looks down, invoking the sans-culottes to ever greater heights of patriotism, or fratricide.

Meanwhile, in the park, in his blue coat and yellow breeches, Robespierre walks Brount, his dog, and talks to children. One, with a hoop, bumps into Gamelin's legs. The artist-magistrate lifts the boy roughly in his arms. "Child!" he says, "You will grow up to be free and happy, and you will owe it to the infamus Gamelin. I am steeped in blood so that you may be happy. I am cruel, that you may be kind... When you are a man, you will owe to me your happiness... and if you ever hear my name mentioned, you will curse it." As the terrified child runs to cling to his mother's skirts, Gamelin says to Elodie, his lover, "I held that child in my arms; perhaps I shall have his mother sent to the guillotine." The Girondist cloud gathers over the Jacobin head. Once again, despotism is countered by despotism, and the common people live in fear.

What is the Terror, if not the institutionalization of hatred? As the tumbrils roll the faithful sing the Ah! Ca Ira, the theme song of the Revolution.

Ah! Ca ira, ca ira, ca ira

les aristocrates a la lanterne!

Ah! Ca ira, ca ira, ca ira

les aristocrates on les pendra!

Si on n'les pend pas

on les rompra.

Si on n'les rompt pas

on les brulera.

Nous n'avions plus ni nobles, ni pretres,

Ah! Ca ira, ca ira, ca ira

L'egalite partout regnera.

Ah! That'll do, that'll do, that'll do.

Aristocrats to the lamp-post!

Ah! That'll do, that'll do, that'll do.

The aristocrats - we will hang them!

If we don't hang them

we will break them.

If we don't break them

we will burn them.

We'll have no more nobles, no priests.

Ah! That'll do, that'll do, that'll do.

Equality will reign everywhere.

* * * * * * * * *

What is there to fear in California? Not the reasoned expression of opinion, but the invective of hatred. When debate becomes denunciation then the structure of mutual respect is removed, and the whole house falls. How ironic, that those who trumpet tolerance the loudest are those who demonstrate it the least. Proposition 8 was not motivated by hatred, but maybe its opponents are.

You can listen to Ca Ira at //edith-piaf.narod.ru/piaf1954.html

Friday's Child

He told us we were free to choose

But, children as we were, we thought -

'Paternal Love will only use

Force, in the last resort,

On those too bumptious to repent.'

'Friday's Child' - W.H. Auden.

Auden's poem, of this title, was written in 1958 in memory of Dietrich Bonhoeffer, who was martyred at Flossenburg, Germany, on April 9, 1945. It's a strange attribution, given that the poem is both a wistful recollection of the death of Christ (Good Friday's Child) and a damning indictment of the ineptitude of God.

Auden seems genuinely bemused by the theological tension between divine sovereignty and human agency. He accuses God of having given away too much.

Perhaps He frowns, perhaps He grieves,

But it seems idle to discuss

If anger or compassion leaves

The bigger bang to us.


What reverence is rightly paid

To a Divinity so odd

He lets the Adam whom He made

Perform the acts of God?

His point seems to be that, since God allows us to make our own mistakes, and does not intervene, He is not worthy of our praise. In fact, God is irrelevant. For Auden, it appears not to matter at all whether or not God is real. We have no real way of knowing:

And must put up with having learned

All proofs or disproofs that we tender

Of His existence are returned

Unopened to the sender.

Even the resurrection of Christ fails to answer the question. Auden "dare not say" whether the seal of the tomb remained unbroken. Christ on the cross, like God in heaven, remains silent. Our questions remain unanswered. A God who will not intervene when His Son is suffering "a death reserved for slaves" deserves nothing from us. This is Auden's caustic judgment:

The self-observed observing Mind

We meet when we observe at all

Is not alarming or unkind

But utterly banal.

* * * * * * * * * * * *


How can it be that one man, sitting at ease, can spout such invective, whilst another, awaiting his death, places His confidence in the God revealed in Jesus Christ? To one, the ways of the Divine are childish and stupid; to the other they are wonderfully profound. Bonhoeffer was painfully aware of the tension between human evil and divine restraint. Most of his adult life had been lived in the shadow of unspeakable horror. Unlike Auden, however, who bolted from Europe to the sanctuary of the United States, Bonhoeffer returned to his native Germany. Auden chose to doubt, and blamed God for doing nothing. Bonhoeffer chose to believe, and did something.

My Way?

Apparently, things are not what they used to be in the funeral business in the UK. Increasing numbers of Britons are now choosing secular funerals, so the music being played is changing. Out are the standard hymns used for generations. In are selections deemed more appropriate, either by the dearly departed, or by those gathering at the wake. A survey of 30,000 funerals last year showed hymns on the decline, except in Scotland. In England and Wales it's a different story.

X Factor winner Alexandra Burke's cover of the Leonard Cohen classic 'Hallelujah' is proving popular, although many of us have never quite worked out what it's all about. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bsuXbkrA_AQ

Other favorites include Bette Midler's 'Wind Beneath My Wings,' Andrea Bocelli and Sarah Brightman's 'Time to Say Goodbye,' and, most popular of all, Frank Sinatra's 'My Way.'

Secular humanity has also shuffled off to theme songs from soap operas. Even the music from the Shipping Forecast (giving weather related information) has been used. Somewhat more unusual choices include:

AC/DC's 'Highway to Hell,' Doctor and the Medics 'Spirit in the Sky,' and, of course, 'Another One Bites the Dust' by Queen.

It's interesting to note that the survey was commissioned by Co-operative Funeralcare which, at least in my experience, tends to cater for a more blue-collar or working-class clientele. There may, therefore, be sociological or demographic reasons for this trend, in that working class Britain has been distanced from the church for longer. Nevertheless, it's clear that thousands of people are dying without hope, or at least without hope fixed on the certainties of the Gospel. And that is not funny at all.

I used to worry, when I lived in Newcastle, that I was often asked to pronounce the assurance of salvation over people who had never darkened the door of any church and who, as far as I knew, had no relationship with God. I coped with this by adding a qualifier to the committal. I used to say, "Inasmuch as ....... trusted in Christ as Savior and Lord, we now commit his body to the ground, earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, in sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life through our Lord Jesus Christ..."

Now, it seems, I would be saved the bother. I could tell a few entertaining stories about the deceased, express some vague hope about something or other, and then close the curtain to the crematorium while a reality star sings a godless hallelujah.

No wonder Paul says that, if Christ is not risen from the dead we are, of all men, most to be pitied. But that is not the case. Because He lives, we too will live.

Where is our urgency in conveying this hope to a generation that prefers the ersatz to the real, that would rather warble "My Way" than worship the One who is 'the Way, the Truth, and the Life"?

See the original story at http://itn.co.uk/news/8dd23696acf9823b701b27b829bec105.html

Economics and the Elderly

A sad statistic hit the news today. Apparently, one in every five seniors has been forced to skip a meal as a direct result of the current economic crisis. Some are making do with one less meal a day in order to conserve their reserves. Those who are on fixed incomes have been particularly badly hit by the recession. Some of them, who depended upon income from investments to supplement their pensions, have seen their reserves decimated.

So, Grandma and Grandpa are cutting back on necessities in order to stay afloat financially. I hope that those who caused this crisis, by their wanton speculation and relentless greed, feel proud of themselves. "What did you do today?" "I made Grandma go hungry."

At the same time the news only increases our responsibility to care for one another. Perhaps the churches will have to take up more of the slack in order to counter both the poverty and the loneliness that afflict so many elderly people. Perhaps we need to be investing more resources into senior ministry, and not just for our own people. Someone once said that a society is to be judged by how it treats its weakest members. Shame on us, if we cannot care for those who once cared for us.