Cabanga

I got a rather odd email today. It came from the Blackburn Rovers mailing list, to which I subscribe as a follower of the beautiful game and a fan of the team I have supported for the best part of fifty years. Usually, emails from the official Blackburn site give news of recent victories (would that that were always true) or details of players and their various injuries. It's all pretty predictable, harmless stuff.

Then, today, i got an email asking me to be a twelfth man for the England football team, which is preparing to do battle in the World Cup, in South Africa, in June. I'm familiar with the concept of the fan as the twelfth man. When the 100,000 rabid Aggies scream for the Texas A&M (American) football team at Kyle Field, their vociferous support encourages the players to knock that nasty team in burnt orange back to Austin, where they belong. It's all about making a lot of noise, especially when the opposing offense is on the field. In the same way, supporters can get behind their team in virtually any sport. After all, encouragement usually achieves more than the wagging finger of blame.

Back to the email: apparently, some bright spark in the English FA decided to ask suppporters to think positive thoughts about the team, on the theory that minds concentrated upon a single purpose are capable of making a difference. Here's part of the email:

We all want the boys to win in South Africa this summer, but most of us think we'll inevitably get knocked out at some point after the group stages. So if we really want to help them win (without strapping boots on ourselves) then we need to use the power of the 12th man.A Neuropsychologist has found that the power of the mind can actually influence results. Experiments show that this mental energy is strongest when unified under a single positive word. And if we all focus on this one word then doubt is less likely to creep in.That word is Cabanga (it means 'imagine' in Zulu if you're interested).We know with a greater number of believers, we can get more power and energy behind the word.With this in mind we're aiming to reach 90,000 fans (that's around the capacity of Wembley Stadium) on our facebook page, to help our boys win this summer.So show your support, be part of Cabanga and together we can help bring home the cup.

On the face of it, this is an extraordinary claim. By this theory, if 90,000 supporters think "goal" at the very moment that Wayne Rooney pulls back his leg to shoot, then they can influence the flight of the ball sufficiently to make it evade the despairing clutches of the opposition goalkeeper. The obvious question is, of course, what happens if 190,000 supporters of the opposing team are willing the ball to miss the goal? I'm not sure that this can be proven, either one way or the other. I still find it extraordinary that a thoroughly secular organisation, such as the FA, would countenance such a scheme.

My second thought is: What does this say about prayer? When the US and England teams meet in one of the opening games of the tournament, should I be praying that my team will win? (By the way, as an Englishman living in the US, that's a game I cannot lose). Will God listen to my prayers, and the prayers of those who are asking exactly the opposite, before deciding who will win? Or, should prayer be reserved for rather more important matters? I know that God is interested in the details of my life, but I don't think I can claim Him as partisan in sport. Unless, of course, He is a Blackburn supporter...

The Tender Indifference of the World

L'Etranger, Albert Camus' dark novel of self-discovery and despair, was simply a rather odd novel when I read it for the first time, thirty years ago. Today, re-reading it, I'm more able to discern Camus' underlying message, even if it still annoys me! Modernists often accuse Christians of intellectual arrogance, but they fail to recognize the grandiose certainties of Existentialism. Camus is relentless. He is determined to make his readers understand the fundamental absurdity of life. the vehicle for his anti-gospel is a self-absorbed youth by the name of Meursault.

As the story begins, we learn that Meursault's mother has just died. She had been living in an institution for the elderly. Meursault, her only living relative, had not paid her a great deal of attention. Indeed, her death and subsequent burial fail to move Meursault from his morose naval-gazing. It is as if the novel is taking place in his mind. One is never altogether sure of the existence of the sun-baked Algerian landscape in which Camus' characters live out their miserable lives. Meursault is unmoved by distractions like the death of his mother or a job offer in distant Paris. His refrain is, "Cela m'est egal" - "It's all the same.

Almost by accident, Meursault meets an old work-mate, Maria. His "grief" does not prevent him taking her to the beach, or to see a comic movie, or to bed. He also acquires a disreputable friend, Raymond, who leads Meursault into further adventures. Whilst planning a lazy afternoon at a beach-house, Raymond is confronted by three rather faceless Arabs. Violence lurks, then recedes, until Meursault decides to take matters into his own hands. After everything has calmed down, and the danger seems to have passed, Meursault takes Raymond's revolver and pursues the Arabs. When the sun glints off a knife held by one of the men, Meursault fires, repeatedly, and the man dies. Later, Meursault can only blame the sun for his actions.

Throughout the rest of the story, Camus grapples clumsily with the themes of oppression and state violence. Meursault refuses to accept the existence of a universal moral code. He is accused of being cold and indifferent to other people, but he refuses to conform. Proudly confident of the absurdity of this world, Meursault gives up his life with a shrug.

How sad! Meursault is a man entirely without hope, because his world revolves entirely around himself. There is no consolation to be found in the "tender indifference of the world" beyond a vague appreciation of beauty, and regret at not having longer to enjoy it. Meursault isn't even really narcissistic, he has just convinced himself of he inevitability of the meta-narrative of absurdity. It never seems to occur to him to ask, "If nothing makes sense, should that not also hold for my statement that nothing makes sense?" Like the post-modernity of which twentieth century Existentialism is but one symptom, Meursault's creed is self-contradictory. Camus attempts to use logic to prove the illogicality of the universe. He succeeds only in making his main character appear truly absurd.

L'Etranger has been an immensely influential novel. It is still required reading for many undergraduates. Are those who teach its story still entrenched in the intellectual revolution that was the 1960's? Do pony-tailed professors still dream of Left Bank cafes, and of a time when all of the old certainties were overthrown? If they do, I wonder whether their students can see through the posturing? Will it take a new generation to burst the bubble of Woodstock and the gospel according to Jean Paul? Or, must we look forward to another generation of outsiders, for whom the greatest good appears to be the necessity of revolt?

There is a person missing in Camus' story. Meursault needs a father to hold him accountable and to guide him to maturity. Adolescent angst is no basis for a philosophy for life. And if we are to recover a robust theology that moves beyond both self-adulation and self-loathing, then we must help the Prodigal Meursaults of this world to find a way back to their Father's arms.

Steeler Morality

So, Big Ben Roethlisberger is to serve a six game suspension for his loutish behavior in Georgia in May. Roger Goodell, the NFL commissioner, has come down on Ben like the proverbial ton of bricks, even though charges were never brought by the Georgian authorities. Apparently there was not enough to convict him of rape, even though it's pretty clear that he plied a young college student with drink then followed her into a bathroom. Perhaps he wanted to show her his etchings, or to discuss the niceties of social theory, or perhaps he was just being an arrogant jerk with too much money and no conscience.

I'm glad Ben got fined, even if it does mean that the Steelers are likely to have a less than stellar season this year. It's good that bad behavior has consequences. He could end up losing over $3million because of his little escapade. Presumably that is a drop in the bucket, but at least it should make him think again. Art Rooney and the Steelers organization are also to be commended for taking a hard line. No doubt there will be questions asked as to why they didn't trade Roethlisberger, given that they had just got rid of Santonio Holmes, but I imagine the answer is obvious. It has nothing to do with the color of his skin, but a great deal to do wih the strength of his arm. You don't build franchises around wide receivers, no matter how good. Ben has already brought two Super Bowls to Pittsburgh. He has the potential to bring even more revenue to his adopted city. But he will have to grow up. He does himself no credit with behavior that brings his team and his family into disrepute.

Having said all this, it does sound a little Victorian, doesn't it? The imposition of morality seems so out of place in our postmodern world. Especially since Ben was never officially charged, it makes Goodell look like a stern-faced headmaster, idly flicking the cane behind his back. It seems that Ben's punishment is due to the fact that he put somebody at risk. Would he have suffered if nobody had been in danger?

Recently, John Terry, the England Football player, was stripped of the captaincy of the national squad becuse he had an affair with the ex-girlfriend of a team mate. England's manager, the Italian Fabio Capello, won a great deal of respect in many quarters by taking decisive action. It's worth noting, though, that the action was not strictly speaking taken on moral grounds. Capello judged that Terry's behavior would have a detrimental effect upon team morale, should he be allowed to remain as captain. So, the fact that he betrayed a friend and broke a moral code is of secondary importance?

The problem is, of course, that everyone is afraid to talk about moral standards, except in as much as behavior endangers either health or success. Neither Goodell nor Capello dares to invoke a universal standard, such as the Ten Commandments. They are, nevertheless, making value judgments. It's worth asking "Upon what foundation are such judgments made?" Morality has to have a foundation, a rationale. You can't just keep condemning behavior on the basis of a moral code which society has ceased to embrace. Why should the exploitation of women be regarded as a societal evil? Is the prohibition something we have just decided upon, or is it the consequence of divine command?

Well done, Commissioner Goodell. I hope that you will apply the NFL's code of behavior with equaniminty. I hope, also, that one day someone will have the courage to condemn behaviors not because of any risk involved, but just because they are morally wrong.

A Resting Place for Sorrow

I've been re-reading Tess of the D"Urbervilles by Thomas Hardy, and have been much convicted by one particular episode. Hardy was no friend of the church; his works are known for their anti-Christian themes. But he hits a nerve in his representation of an encounter between young Tess and her parish priest.

Tess has been raped, and the child she subsequently bears marks her out as a fallen woman. She receives only condemnation from her father, and is ignored by the church which, previously, she had attended faithfully. Fearing, with good cause, for the life of her ailing son, Tess sends for the Vicar, but he is turned away by her father. In desperation she is forced to baptize her child herself (which, incidentally, is perfectly legal in Reformed circles, in extremis). This she does, mimicking the liturgy she had heard in worship. Hardy's treatment of the scene is touching and sympathetic. He does not really approve of the superstition, one feels, but he admires the simple devotion of a mother.

The child dies and Tess makes arrangements to meet the Vicar. She tells him what she has done, and asks for his approval. Eventually, he gives it, acknowledging no difference in the ordinance that she had given from any rite that he would have performed. Hardy is scathing in his depiction of a man who is trying to do his best. Noting Tess's dignity, and the tenderness of her voice, the cleric speaks to her out of nobler impulses "or rather, those that he had left in him after ten years of endeavour to graft technical belief on actual scepticism. The man and the ecclesiastic fought within him, and the victory fell to the man."

But then Tess moves on to another question. Will he allow the child to be buried in consecrated ground? The Parson begins to waver, concerned, presumably, that his parishoners will find out about the irregular baptism, and that word might get back to the Bishop. Though Tess presses him, he continues to make excuses. Finally, she exclaims "Don't for God's sake speak as saint to sinner, but as you yourself to me myself - poor me!" But he will not.

And so baby "Sorrow" is buried, clandestinely, in a corner of the churchyard reserved for the ungodly, at the cost of a shilling for the sexton. The Parson had struggled to reconcile ecclesiastical law, as he understood it, with the compassion he felt for a young girl and her dead child. But he chose to answer her as a saint might answer a sinner, and in this he failed.


There is a place for Law. We would be in a sorry state without it. But there is also a place for Love. Would that those of us who spend our days with our collars turned (figuratively, or not), might never forget.

Retreat to Victory

Mons: Retreat to Victory, by John Terraine, is an account of the retreat of the British Expeditionary Force (B.E.F.) and the French Armies following the invasion of Belgium in 1914. In sparse yet graphic language, Terraine chronicles attempts by the Germans to outflank the Allies, and to cut through all opposition in Northern France like a scythe. The bold endeavor almost succeeded. That it did not is due both to the timidity of German High Command, and to the bravery of the Allies. It was, however, a close run thing. Here are a couple of impressions from my reading.

First, wars are not won on paper. Von Schlieffen, the German commander at the turn of the century, laid the groundwork for the maneuver which could have destroyed France and its Allies within a few weeks. Pivoting on Alsace-Lorraine, the whole force of the German war machine could have swept all before it - if its forces had been deployed according to Von Schlieffen's plan. Instead, Von Moltke, Von Bulow and other leaders reinforced the line where it needed to bend, and weakened it where it needed superior strength. The plan failed because they failed.

The British and French also failed because of their inability to read the tide of battle. Intelligence reports were either ignored or forced to fit within some preconceived idea. Estimates of opposing strength were far too low, despite evidence of troop movements gathered by those who flew the new-fangled flying machines. The British, under Sir John French, seemed to have difficulty in adapting to changing circumstances. The French forces, under Joffre, were simply blind to danger. For forty years they had planned their revenge upon the Germans. They had dreamed of forcibly removing the teutonic oppressor from occupied lands in what had once been North East France. The spirit of Napoleon I was alive and well in the French army. Its generals vowed to attack at every opportunity and not to yield an inch of sacred earth. Too frequently, that earth became a grave as patriotic young Frenchmen still dressed in the red kepis and long blue capotes of the Second Empire, hurled themselves against forces they could not hope to break. The plans of grey-haired generals, far from the front-line, were far removed from the realities of conflict .

Second, in war, very few people have any idea what they are doing. Those who have at least some idea are at a huge advantage. The detailed accounts of the withdrawal of the B.E.F. demonstrate a remarkable degree of forethought, most often exercised by supply officers down the line, not by those caught up in the action. An army in retreat still needs to be fed. It requires ammunition and supplies. The wounded must still be evacuated. Lines of communication must be established and renewed whenever necessary. But when it comes down to it, especially when moving through a heavily-industrialized area, the movement of so many men is littered with misunderstandings and mistakes. If the retreat is not uniform, units can become isolated and enveloped, as happened to members of the Cheshire Regiment. Despite the skills of impressive and experienced commanders such as General Smith-Dorrien, whose reputation was largely made during the retreat from Mons, it must be admitted that the success of the operation was due, in no small measure, to the failure of the Germans to press home their advantage. Some German troops said later that they had expected the British to mount a counter-attack, so badly mauled had the Germans been in their attempts to advance. They did not realize their numerical superiority, nor the large gaps that sometimes appeared between Allied Corps. The history of war may be told on maps in bright colors, but it is written in fog, in shades of grey.

If there is something to be learned, apart from the folly of war, it is that persistence and imagination often have their reward. When, in the end, the German armies pushed too far and exposed their flank, it was those who had seen strategic retreat as a means to victory who were ready to pounce. The small-minded, vainglorious fools who had refused to listen understood how to lead men to their defeat, but not much more. It was those nearing retirement, Petain and Foch, who became the leaders of revitalized France. While the young could only impale themselves on steel, experience taught older heads to feint, to parry, and then to strike.

Life is not war, though it sometimes feels like it. But it seems that there is, after all, something to be said for the wisdom that comes from experience, as long as it is still open to innovation and risk. The other lesson, if you are looking for one, is that patience is often the best policy, as long as it does not become an excuse for indecision. Knowing when to strike and when to hold back can often be the difference between victory and defeat.

Easter Day, April 4, 2010

I Know That My Redeemer Lives

I know that my Redeemer lives, and that in the end He will stand upon the earth. And after my skin has been destroyed, yet in my flesh I will see God.
Job 19:25, 26

But Christ has indeed been raised from the dead, the firstfruits of those who have fallen asleep.
I Corinthians 15:20

In the most unexpected of places, God cultivates hope. Surely, we would never have looked for the promise of new life in the chronicle of Job. He lost everything – his fortune and his home, his family and his health. All that Job had left was an assortment of odd friends who offered him bad advice. There was no word of hope for this, most afflicted of prophets. He would have been better off dying, at least then his misery would have ended. And yet, hidden within its sorrowful pages, the book of Job brings light to the darkness. “I know,” he seems to sing, defiantly, “that my Redeemer lives, and that in the end He will stand upon the earth.” Though he did not fully understand his prophetic words, Job looked forward to an empty tomb, and to the resurrection of the Son of God.

On the third day,[1] the first day of the week, women came to the tomb to anoint Jesus’ body, a task they could not have performed on the Jewish Sabbath. But, when they arrived, they found that the stone that had sealed the tomb had been rolled away. Angels, in white, greeted them, but the women scarcely knew what to believe. Later,[2] Peter and John came running to see what had happened. John ran on ahead, and then hesitated. Peter ran past him into the open tomb and found the graveclothes, folded but empty. Hope lifted up its head.

Mary Magdalene,[3] still in shock, wept at the loss of her Lord. Once again, angels comforted her; but it was only when she turned to speak to a man she took to be a gardener that the reality of what had happened came to her. “Mary,” He said. And Mary realized that this was no gardener, it was the Lord. By His rising, hope – once hidden- flooded her world with light. Sorrow was banished. Death was overcome by joy unspeakable.

Every claim Christ ever made was proven on that day. Every command He ever issued was underlined. Every promise was written bold. For Christ was risen, the firstfruits of those who have fallen into the sleep of death. Today, we repeat the refrain with joy: Christ is risen! He is risen indeed! Alleluia!

Risen Lord,
I greet You with joy,
for You have overcome the power of death and drawn its sting.
Death’s shackles could not hold You. You’re alive!
And so, I live in hope: after my flesh has been destroyed I shall see You.
With my own eyes I shall see You.
Alleluia and Amen.

[1] Matthew 28:1
[2] John 20:3f
[3] John 20:10

Saturday, April 3, 2010

Laughed to Scorn

All who see me mock me; they hurl insults, shaking their heads.
Psalm 22:7

On the cross, Jesus quoted from Psalm 22:1, “My God, my God, why have You forsaken me?” Some of those who heard His words must have thought that Jesus was falling into dark despair. God was not coming to rescue Him. A squadron of angels was not about to blast His oppressors into oblivion, nor transport Him to glory. Jesus’ end was agonizingly human. He died in excruciating pain, as victims of man’s inhumanity have often died, throughout the centuries. Doubtless some were happy to see Jesus in this state – pathetic, worthy only of our pity.

Others, seeing Jesus, felt no pity, only scorn. Verse seven of Psalm 22 means, literally, “they shoot out the lip,” that is, they sneer at the passing of the Holy One. Certainly, there were those who were relieved to see Him die. Jesus had posed a threat to the religious establishment. With His death, things could get back to normal. Jesus had believed Himself to be someone special, but His death proved otherwise, or so they thought.

In the cool darkness of the tomb Jesus slept the sleep of death. But it was not a sleep from which He would never awake. While the devil and his cohorts laughed at Christ’s passing, the seed of life was getting ready to burst forth. Deep, within the earth, new life was rising. It was to be the rebirth of hope.

There are those who still heap ridicule upon Christ today. They say that His acquiescence to the will of God makes Him less than a man. They rail against “the pale Galilean” as the one who drains the color out of life. They mock Him as a dreamer who accomplished nothing. In their eyes, Jesus is still dead. His bones lie hidden in a Palestinian ossuary, which is exactly where His ideas should be left – dead and buried, consigned to the scrapheap of history. The laughter of these God-haters still rolls around the world, and the joke is always at the expense of the Man of Sorrows.

But, He who laughs last laughs loudest. Death crows its victory; but life lies in waiting, ready for the coming of the dawn.

Silent God,
The foolish ignore You.
The malicious abuse You.
Have I been among their number?
Have I been too busy to watch and pray?
Have I taken a seat among the mockers?
Forgive me, Lord.
I, too, will be silent.
And I will wait.
Amen.

Friday, April 2, 2010

Laid On Him

We all, like sheep, have gone astray, each of us has turned to his own way; and the Lord has laid on him the iniquity of us all.
Isaiah 53:6

This is the darkest of days. It is God’s Friday – Good Friday. There is not much good about it, or so it would seem. Certainly there was little goodness to be found in the events of this terrible day. If we can find good in Good Friday, then it is in the consequences of the day, for on that day the Lord laid on Him the iniquity of us all.

A trial was held overnight, illegally. False witnesses were brought.[1]It was alleged that Jesus had said that He could rebuild the temple in three days. Everyone knew this to be humanly speaking impossible, but few suspected that Jesus was referring to the temple of His body. The High Priest soon got to the point. “Tell us,” he asked, “if you are the Christ, the Son of God.” they already knew the answer, and the charge was prepared. “Blasphemy” they bellowed on hearing Jesus’ answer, not stopping to wonder whether what He said was true.[2] In that moment the sentence was sealed.

The disciples were thrown into disarray. Peter stayed close but, in order to protect himself, when he was challenged he denied knowing Jesus of Nazareth. Judas realized, too late, what he had done and, in his remorse, took his own life. Pilate interfered, not understanding why this harmless preacher should be thought worthy of crucifixion, but he soon bowed before the pressure of the crowd. An escape route was offered, and then swiftly closed as the crowd shouted for a notorious felon, Barabbas, and thus condemned Jesus to death.[3] Were there those, in their midst, crying, “Crucify Him!” who just days before had laid palm leaves in tribute at His feet?

The soldiers took Jesus and placed a scarlet robe upon Him, and twisted a crown of thorns and placed it upon His head.[4] They spat upon Him and struck Him, then stripped the robe from Him and led Him away to die. A stranger carried His cross to Golgotha, the place of the skull; nails tore His flesh; they crucified Him. A sign above His head mocked Him: “This is Jesus, King of the Jews.”[5] One of the thieves, crucified beside Him, also taunted Him, but another defended Him. One man, watching, offered Him wine vinegar soaked in a sponge. Others simply watched. It did not take long. Jesus cried aloud. He quoted Scripture. Then, He cried again, gave up His spirit, and it was done.[6]

Words fail me, Lord.
I cannot look upon Your cross and do anything but weep –
for the cruelty that put You there,
for the love that kept You there.
I shall weep for You in silence,
until the morning comes.
Amen.

[1] Matthew 26:57f
[2] Matthew 26:65-66
[3] Matthew 27:15-22
[4] Matthew 27:27f
[5] Matthew 27:37
[6] Matthew 27:50

April 1, 2010

By His Stripes

…and by his wounds (stripes) we are healed.
Isaiah 53:5b

In an upper room, Jesus gathered His disciples together to celebrate the Passover. Together, they would recall God’s great deliverance and look forward to the day when His people would, once more, be free. But Jesus also knew that His time was rapidly running out, and that He did not have long before He, too, would be offered as a sacrifice for sin.

In their haste, they had forgotten the formalities. No one had arranged for a servant to wash their feet.[1] No one stepped forward to perform the task. So, Jesus did it. To Peter’s horror, Jesus took a bowl and a towel and washed His disciples’ feet, and then He charged them, that they should do the same. One disciple, Judas Iscariot, saw this solemn act of service and decided that he had had enough. Judas was not interested in Jesus’ spiritual kingdom. He longed for the restoration of Israel. It was a political uprising he wanted, not a religious revival. So, Judas slipped away quietly and took his thirty pieces of silver.[2] It’s not a lot of money to betray a Savior. Jesus continued into the night, sharing with His disciples the core truths and values that He had tried to instill in them throughout His ministry. Some still did not understand. It was only after the event, looking back, that they grasped His meaning. Peter would, later, put it in graphic terms. The disciple who betrayed His Lord three times before the cock crowed, looked back upon the events of that first Holy Week and wrote: “He Himself bore our sins in His body on the tree, so that we might die to sins and live for righteousness.”[3] Then, using a phrase taken directly from Isaiah’s suffering servant songs, Peter concluded, “and by His wounds you have been healed.”

Back in Jerusalem, the meal was concluded. The broken bread would remind Christ’s followers of His broken body; the poured out wine would remind them of His blood.[4] Then, in Gethsemane, Jesus prayed, and Judas identified Him with a kiss, and the hinge of history creaked open.

Lord Jesus,
Had I been there, would I have understood?
It seems so obvious now, so necessary yet so tragic. But then?
Would I have hidden from the truth? Would I have denied you, like Peter?
Would I have sold You out, like Judas?
Would I have watched and prayed, like Mary at the foot of Your cross?
Amen.

[1] John 13:1-17
[2] John 13:30
[3] I Peter 2:24
[4] Matthew 26:26-29