Some musings

ON BRAND

This week Russell Brand was found guilty of serious sexual offences, including rape, and now faces a custodial sentence of considerable length. A well-known public figure whose sense of humour relied far too heavily on crudeness, profanity and the belittling of women, he is also somebody who in recent times has professed to be a Christian – one who, trusting in Jesus Christ, claims to have received free and full forgiveness for all his many sins.

Now we need to be careful before we make too many judgements about Russell Brand faith – because whilst it is undoubtedly true that his behaviour in the past has been nothing short of appalling, and that he is now deservedly being punished for the dreadful crimes he has been convicted of, the genuineness of his conversion to Christianity is not something that I for one feel able to comment on.

Whilst I am not so naive as to believe every profession of faith, and am concerned by how Christians all too often lack discernment as they enthusiastically herald apparent conversions of celebrities, neither do I want to dismiss out of hand the possibility that Brand – whose behaviour was, of course, sinful as well as illegal – may perhaps be someone who is now a believer in Jesus. The simple truth is that I have never met the man and, no matter how I am inclined to think, I am in not in a position to know for sure whether or not his heart has in any way been changed. Because that is something that only God can truly be aware of.

But there are things that can be said about miserable sinners who have truly come to repentance.

And the first thing to say is that such individuals grieve over their wrongdoing. They fully acknowledge their sinfulness and as well as regretting what they have done they wholeheartedly regret how their actions have hurt others. What’s more, they seek to put right, as best they can, the wrongs that they have done – even if that is something that is never fully possible. And whilst they should seek to be reconciled to those they have sinned against, they recognise that they have no right to expect a restored relationship. For such a thing is not easily achieved, particularly when the wrongdoing involves sexual abuse. Any reconciliation can only be graciously granted by the one who has been harmed, and not demanded by the one who is guilty of inflicting that harm upon them.

Because, as I heard it described recently, sin is like a stone thrown into a pond. Whilst the stone can be recovered the waves that it creates continue to ripple out for a long time after.

And so, as we spend time discussing Russell Brand, we must never forget the women who bravely spoke out about his dreadful mistreatment of them – women he used for his own sexual gratification whose lives have been left so terribly scarred as a result.

Secondly, those who know themselves to be sinners, those who have turned to Christ and received the forgiveness that He alone can provide, nonetheless accept the just punishment that the state sees fit to inflict upon them. Just because a Christian is fully forgiven by God doesn’t mean that they don’t suffer, in this life, the consequences of their actions.

Take King David for example – another who, abusing his power, almost certainly used it to force a woman to have sex with him. He slept with Bathsheba, got her pregnant, and then saw to it that her husband Uriah was killed in battle. When confronted by his sin, he confessed his wrongdoing and, with a broken spirit and a contrite heart, he sought and received forgiveness from God. But he still knew what it was to suffer for his wrongdoing – because, whilst we shouldn’t make the mistake that every bad thing that happens to a person is a direct result of their own individual sin, the child that David had conceived with Bathsheba subsequently died, causing him immense grief.

Becoming a Christian then, whilst it does promise an eternity with God in the life to come, doesn’t give us a get-out-of-jail-free card in this one. For it is only when the whole of creation is redeemed that we will be completely free from the consequences of our sin.

For whilst it is true that there is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ, and that God’s righteous anger at our sin has been fully satisfied by Christ’s death for us on the cross, it is also the case that, for the time being at least, we continue to live in a fallen world.

So my thoughts today are first and foremost with the victims of Russell Brand whose lives have been so severely affected by his grievous crimes. I hope they find some kind of peace from knowing that justice has finally been served.

And as for Russel Brand? Well, irrespective of his past, I would love to think he really is now a fellow believer in Christ – one who, remaining truly repentant as he serves whatever prison sentence he receives, might be genuinely transformed by the love of God. And if he isn’t, then I hope that one day he comes to understand that greatness of God’s love is such that it extends even to those who have fallen as badly short of the glory of God as Brand has.

Because God’s grace is sufficient – even for a sinner like him.

As indeed it is for any who gave a platform to someone they knew to be a sexual predator, not to mention those who, finding his so-called jokes funny, enthusiastically laughed along with him, and thereby, at least in part, endorsed attitudes and behaviours that should never have been considered acceptable in the first place.

Furthermore, and just as astonishingly, God’s grace is sufficient for me. And, of course, for you as well.

To read ‘Why should the devil have all the good jokes’, click here

A MILLION CANDLES BURNING

It was Leonard Cohen who, in singing of ‘a million candles burning for the help that never came’, expressed so perfectly what all those in the habit of praying know to be the case – that God sometimes says ‘no’ to our requests when we’d rather He said ‘yes’.

So why is that?

Well let’s start by stating what cannot be denied – that His choosing not to answer our prayers in the ways that we’d like is not necessarily because of a lack of faith on our part. Because it’s not. And the reason we can be so unequivocal about that is because the Bible describes occasions when God acts in ways that His people clearly didn’t believe He would.

Take, for example, the time when the church had met together in earnest prayer for the release of Peter, and then, having done so, refused to believe it was him knocking on the front door of the house where they’d gathered – expecting him, perhaps, to suffer the same fate as James, who had previously been put to death with the sword. [Acts 12:1-17]

Furthermore, since ‘faith comes by hearing and hearing through the word of Christ’ [Romans 10:17], it seems to me that we can only have faith in who God has revealed Himself to be and the things that He has said – the things that He has promised. And since He hasn’t promised to always heal those who are sick, whilst we can pray in faith that He will do what is right – because that is something we know He always does [Genesis 18:25] – we cannot pray in faith, absolutely confident of the complete recovery of our much-loved terminally ill friend or family member.

Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego knew this in the fiery furnace [Daniel 3:17-18] – as did Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane [Luke 22:42].

None of which is to suggest that God won’t heal someone when we ask Him to. Not at all, for God will do whatever He chooses to do. But it is to make plain that if He does answer our prayers in the way that we want Him to, He will do so both independently of any imagined certainty we may have of what He will do and unconstrained by our lack of belief in His ability or willingness to do it.

So why pray at all, if God will keep His promises irrespective of our prayers? Why pray for His kingdom to come and His will to be done [Matthew 6:10], if both these outcomes are already absolutely guaranteed?

The first answer to these questions is, of course, I don’t know. Other than that God tells us to pray. But the reasons for doing so, whilst way beyond my own understanding, seem to relate not only to our recognising our dependence on Him, but also to His mysteriously choosing to make our prayers one of the means by which He brings about His purposes.

And secondly, our prayers have the capacity to change us, not least by bringing us to the point where we willingly submit to God’s good and perfect will for our lives. And, perhaps, for our deaths as well.

Some years ago I was proper poorly with infective endocarditis. In the early days of what would turn out to be a seven-week stay in hospital, and before the diagnosis was finally made, I genuinely thought that I might die – not least because there was serious concern that my condition was due to an underlying malignancy that, had it been confirmed, would have given a whole new meaning to the extended leave I was looking forward to at the time. And so I prayed – initially in hope of healing but ultimately in faith – that the Judge of the whole earth would do what was right. Even if that meant I died at the age of 47.

Twelve years later it is evident that there is one less candle burning than might otherwise have been. But that doesn’t mean that I have learnt my lesson well and am now completely at ease with what God is doing, or not doing, in the world today. I continue, for example, to grieve over the war in Ukraine, the suffering of so many in the world, and the deep sadness experienced by some of those I love. And I wonder why God doesn’t bring an end to it all. I don’t know why one person with cancer is cured by medical means whilst another deteriorates and dies, any more than I know why Peter was rescued by an angel whilst James was left to be executed – but I am nonetheless learning to be content to believe that God does know what He is doing when I don’t, and that the promises He has made are ones that He will most certainly keep.

Because as Cohen continues:

‘There’s a lover in the story,
But the story’s still the same.
There’s a lullaby for suffering,
and a paradox to blame.
But it’s written in the scriptures
and it’s not some idol claim’

That suffering is the means by which suffering will ultimately be brought to an end is indeed a paradox, but that is the nature of what took place at Calvary – where Christ’s suffering became for us the means whereby our suffering is guaranteed to one day come to an end.

And so I have faith that whilst weeping may tarry for the nighttime, joy will come in the morning [Psalm 30:5] – on the day when Jesus finally and forever returns, when wars will be a thing of the past, all our tears will be wiped away, and death will be no more [Isaiah 2:4; Revelation 21:4].

Jesus said He was coming soon. Even so, I pray: ‘Come Lord Jesus.’ [Revelation 22:20]

To read ‘Three times a patient’, click here

To read ‘Reflections on the death of Leonard Cohen’, click here.

BE AFRAID. BE VERY AFRAID.

When it comes to the classics, my knowledge is rudimentary at best. In short I don’t know my Arcas from my Elpenor. But I am aware of the story of the Sirens and how, whilst the crew of his ship plugged their ears with beeswax, rendering them unable to hear their beguiling song, Odysseus had himself bound to the ship’s mast. For whilst he was still able to hear their singing, he was prevented from succumbing to its powerful lure – one which, had he given in to it, would undoubtedly have resulted in his death.

And then there was Orpheus who, when travelling with Jason and the Argonauts through the same strait of water, provided a far better way to nullify the Sirens’ charms. Rather than just striving to avoid falling into temptation, Orpheus played his lyre so beautifully that his music outshone that of the Sirens and thus made it far less appealing.

As such, a greater affection has expelled one that was lesser – in just the way that Thomas Chalmers explained, in his sermon The Expulsive Power of a New Affection, that our hearts must ultimately be transformed, not just by having lesser unwelcome desires removed, but by having a greater and far more satisfying one displace them.

And so I can’t help wondering if something similar might be said about what frightens us. Would our fears be, if not expelled, very much lessened if they were put into perspective by one that is even greater?

Specifically the fear of God.

So what does it mean to fear God? Well, at the very least, it has something to do with being wise – for it says as much in scripture. But whilst it’s good to be told that the fear of the LORD is the beginning of wisdom, it rather begs the question as to how that wisdom subsequently develops.

Because whilst it is easy to understand why a sinner should be fearful in the presence of a holy God, one who is justly angry at our wrongdoing, the Bible also tells us that the fear of God is something to be desired and, what’s more, that it is only in knowing ourselves forgiven that we can more fully fear Him in the way that we ought. Indeed we are told that the point of our forgiveness is, to some extent at least, that the LORD may be feared. [Psalm 130:4]

And so it must be the case that there are different ways in which the fear of the LORD can be understood. For whereas Hebrews 10:31 says that it is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God, referring here to those who persistently sin and reject the salvation made available by Christ’s sacrifice, in 2 Samuel 24:14, King David, aware of and sorry for his own wrongdoing, prefers to fall into the hands of God – ‘for his mercy is great’ – than into the hands of men.

All of which means that when we are conscious of all that we do that displeases Him, we would be wise to run, not away from Him, as we may understandably be tempted, but, paradoxically perhaps, towards Him in order that we might find ourselves hidden in Christ.

So rather than despairing at our own poor performance, we should instead fix our eyes on Jesus – the one who, by enduring the cross, has borne God’s wrath at our sin, so that, if we are in Him, it will never fall on us. And then, with our sins forgiven as a result of Jesus’ substitutionary death, we can stand before Almighty God, not in abject terror, but in reverent fear, delighting in the beauty of His holiness and earnestly desiring to honour Him in the way that we live our lives.

And what’s more, though we will undoubtedly continue to fall short of His perfect will for our lives – which is to make us more like Jesus – we will know, with absolute confidence, that as our loving Heavenly Father, His infinite goodness and new-every-morning mercy will continue to follow us all our days.

Which in turn means that, when our time comes to die, we need not fear death – the one thing that, more than any other, we would otherwise be right to be frightened of.

For when the perishable puts on the imperishable, and the mortal puts on immortality, then shall come to pass the saying that is written:

‘Death is swallowed up in victory. O death, where is your victory? O death, where is your sting?’ [1 Corinthians 15:54-55]

To read ‘On NOT being afraid at Halloween’, click here

To read ‘Fear not, it’s Halloween’, click here

To read ‘Monsters’, click here

THIRTY-ONE REASONS WHY I STILL NEED THE GOSPEL

The gospel is the good news that Jesus Christ suffered and died in the place of sinners – bearing on the cross the punishment that they deserved. It promises us that, through faith in His perfect sacrifice, we will be fully forgiven for all our wrongdoing, counted righteous now in Christ, and welcomed wholeheartedly into God’s family as His much-loved children.

And it’s this good news, and all that inevitably flows from it, that means I still need the gospel today every bit as much as when I first came to Christ.

Here are just 31 of the countless reasons why.

1. Though guilty – it offers me forgiveness.

2. Once alienated from God – it reconciles me to Him.

3. Knowing I am going to die – it promises me a resurrection to eternal life.

But it brings about far more than what makes the headlines. So the list continues:

4. When I’m proud – it humbles me, by reminding me that, other than Christ, I’ve nothing to boast about.

5. When I worry about the future of the planet – I’m reminded that it’s not just me who will one day be renewed, because the earth will be too.

6. When I am tired – it offers me rest.

7. When I am sad – it assures me that one day my every tear will be wiped away.

8. When I despair – it offers me hope.

9. When I’m lonely – it assures me I’m not alone.

10. When I think it’s all down to me – it promises me it isn’t.

11. When I don’t understand – it points me to where true wisdom is found.

12. When I’m rejected by others – it reminds me that I am completely accepted in Christ.

13. When I continue to sin – it offers me fresh mercy. And when I continue to act in ways I shouldn’t – it offers me ongoing grace and with it the hope of slowly being transformed into the likeness of Christ.

14. When I feel invisible – it assures me I am seen.

15. When I think I’m someone of importance, it reminds me that my greatest significance comes not from what I do but from who I am – one who has been made in the image of God. Having fallen, I have been redeemed and graciously restored, and having been born again, I am now His child, one who is being slowly transformed into the image of His Son.

16. When circumstances appear impossible – it reminds me that nothing is beyond His power, and though I may have to wait my whole life long, I can nonetheless be sure that one day all that is wrong with the world – and me – will finally be put right.

17. When I need to be carried, and when I foolishly think I don’t – it reminds me I’m always held in His everlasting arms.

18. When I’m in free fall – it sets my feet upon a rock. And that rock is Christ.

19. When I feel I haven’t a prayer – it tells me that I have.

20. When I haven’t a clue – it reminds me I can trust the One for whom nothing is a mystery.

21. When everything’s changing far too quickly – it reminds me that God remains forever the same.

22. When others find me unlovable – it assures me that, despite my sin, I remain genuinely loved by God – whose love refuses to leave me as I am.

23. When I’m frightened – it assures me I do not face my fears alone.

24. When I’ve nothing to say – it gives me something to talk about. And when I’ve too much to say – it gives me something worth listening to.

25. When I think I’m in control – it reminds me that I’m not.

26. When I’m lost and all at sea – it leads me safely home. And when I’m scrabbling around in the dark – it offers me a guiding light.

27. When I wonder what the point is – it provides me with a purpose.

28. When I feel far from God – it assures me that He is near.

29. When I’m dissatisfied – it points me to an all-sufficient God.

30. When I’m full of complaints – it gives me something to be grateful for.

31. When I find everything dull and boring – it gives me something to be wonderfully excited about.

Furthermore, when I worry about those I love, those whom I can’t help, and those who are sad, suffering, or seemingly hopelessly lost, the gospel offers me something that I can offer them – the good news of Jesus Christ. Because, whilst it won’t put everything right at once, it can sustain them just as much as it continues to sustain me.

‘For I am not ashamed of the gospel, for it is the power of God for salvation to everyone who believes.’ [Romans 1:16]

ON REFRAINING

Fearful of dire consequences,
Were I found guilty of offences,
I always tried to keep the rules
When patronising swimming pools.

So whilst I swam you’d see me striving
Avoiding zones reserved for diving,
And I from pushing was prevented
Despite my being sorely tempted.

When I was poolside I’d not yell,
My need for speed I’d somehow quell,
And then when cigarettes I craved,
I just refrained and thus behaved.

Because I did all that I oughta,
I’d not hold others under water,
And resisted acrobatics
And gymnastical aquatics.

Although with joy and with panache
I longed to bomb and make a splash,
Because the rules restraint required
I did not act as I desired.

And never having had the chance
To even once enjoy romance,
With no one aiding or abetting,
I kept myself, alas, from petting.

And so I think we can assume
My swimming long-unused costume
Now rarely sees the light of day
For there’s no fun in water play.

THE WILD WIND AND WHAT IS WHISPERED

Some people, in order to be heard, like to make a lot of noise. They shout, say something provocative, or failing that, threaten something terrible on those who refuse to take notice of them. And one can understand why – because like the weather this week, bluster makes the headlines even if it doesn’t go down a storm with those caught in its path.

But before we point a finger at others, perhaps we should look in the mirror and see that we are all too often those who are adding to the brouhaha – if not with our own voices, by our turning up the volume of those whom it might be preferable to switch off altogether – be they the self-professed experts who don’t know what they’re talking about, or the mindless amusements, human or otherwise, that we all too often willingly allow ourselves to be distracted by.

Which is not to say we should never listen to anything loud. And not only because I am, ironically enough, looking forward to hearing the appropriately named band ‘Bellowhead’ playing next month. Because far more importantly, and not only to gain our attention, God Himself sometimes roars. [Jeremiah 25:30]

But sometimes He doesn’t – because sometimes He whispers [1 Kings 19:12].

And so on occasions we need to be still – to shut up and know that God is God [Psalm 46:10]. And all the more so if we are to have any hope at all of hearing Him when He speaks in His still small voice.

The one that can, remember, calm even the most violent of storms. [Mark 4:39]

ON NOT LOSING YOUR HEAD

It was, I remember, as a 17-year-old schoolboy that I watched Ade Edmondson, as the anarchic Vyvyan, kick his own decapitated head along a railway line in my most favourite ever episode of ‘The Young Ones’. Little did I know then that yesterday evening I would see him on television again, painting impressively with watercolours, delicately cooking monkfish, and taking obvious pleasure in gannets as they dived into the sea.

And so I am growing increasingly fond of a man who appears gentler, kinder and more thoughtful than his early performances may have suggested.

Not that these are things that we have in common – they are, perhaps, rather more surprising. Because as well as both spending time playing at being a medical student, we each own the exact same Nikwax waterproof coat and have both performed with the RSC at Stratford-upon-Avon – although I ought perhaps to point out that, whereas he had a starring role as Malvolio in ‘Twelfth Night’ at the Royal Shakespeare Theatre, a performance I made the effort to go and see, I trod the boards alongside Anton Lesser, as an extra in ‘The Winter’s Tale’ at The Swan Theatre, which he didn’t bother to attend!

That said, as I watched him enjoying spending time with Sam West, I couldn’t help sense a contented melancholia about Ade Edmondson – one that I wondered might have arisen as a result of the less than affectionate relationship with his father that he spoke about with his birdwatching friend.

And whilst I can’t of course know for sure, I further wondered if this in turn may have been the reason why, as he grows inevitably older and approaches his 70th birthday, Edmondson may have drawn comfort from the words of acclaimed painter, photographer, and stage designer, David Hockney, whose philosophy he paraphrased when he said that, with both the past and the future being a fiction, life was therefore all about the now.

But it is here that, for what it’s worth, I’d want to gently disagree with the comic who still makes me laugh and whom I nonetheless continue to genuinely admire.

Because whilst we do not experience it in the same way as we do the present, we live now in light of the past that has to some extent determined it. And similarly, though we do not know it in the same way as we do the here and now, the future, to some degree at least, follows as a consequence of what we do today.

And whilst it might be convenient to believe the past no longer matters, and that the future is not our responsibility, neither of these seemingly comforting thoughts are based on reality.

Which is in fact good news.

Because the truth is that we live in an ordered universe – one in which cause and effect follow on from each other. Which means that our actions, far from being inconsequential, really do make a difference. And whilst we can’t change the past, or fully determine the future, rather than simply ignoring what went before and not considering what may happen in the future, we should endeavour, where possible, to put right what went wrong in the past, and seek to make the future even a little better than it might otherwise have been.

And it’s good news too for when we can’t bring about the change we’d like. Because even those who have suffered horribly at the hands of others really can look forward to a day when the judge of all the earth will do what is right – when He will not only vindicate the wronged and bring about justice, but will make all things right as well.

All of which means that, having already had eternity placed in our hearts, we must now consider how we will experience our eternal future – whether we will trust in ourselves and thus forever remain damnably disappointed, or hope in God – the one who offers us salvation and, in Christ, promises eternal satisfaction in His presence.

Because the cross deals with our past just as it secures our future – by atoning for our sin and reconciling us to God, Jesus’ finished work guarantees our place in heaven.

Which is a truth that we should no more respond to by sticking our heads in the sand than we would by kicking them along a railway line.

WE ARE FAMILY

This week we’ve been delighted to make contact with one of our kin who we’ve never previously met – nor indeed ever even communicated with. I wouldn’t say he was a long lost family member, because we always knew where he was, but I guess you could say he was a distant relative on account of his living in New Zealand.

But what struck me about both the phone call and the messages we subsequently exchanged was how easy it was to chat with my wife’s cousin, how interested we were in what was going on in each other’s lives, and how warm the welcome that was offered should either of us find ourselves half a world away from where we now live.

But then I guess that’s how it ought to be – because we are, after all, family.

All of which explains something else – why it has been such a pleasure these past three years meeting folk from Poland, Romania, Bulgaria, Serbia, Moldova and Ukraine – and corresponding with others I look forward to one day crossing paths with in North Macedonia. Because all of these fellow believers are part of the same Christian family as I am. Which means that we share a strong bond of fellowship that was present long before we ever got to know each other properly.

That’s why, when we refer to each other as brothers or sisters, we mean it.

And why we have, as friends now as well as siblings, so enjoyed spending time in each other’s company, been genuinely interested in what is going on in one another’s lives, and been pleased to welcome and be welcomed into our respective homes as well.

But more remarkable still is who else is in the family. Because Jesus, the One who, by His sacrificial death, has reconciled us to God and brought us into relationship with Him, is the One who sanctifies us even as He identifies with us in His humanity. And even more astonishingly, He is unashamed to call us His brothers and sisters too. [Hebrews 2:11]

What’s more, as well as being our Lord and Saviour, He also calls us His friends [John 15:15] – which is why He desires fellowship with us, really is concerned about what is happening in our lives, and welcomes us into His home – the one He shares with our loving Heavenly Father who has Himself adopted us as His much-loved children.

ONCE UPON A TIME IN DEVIZES

I rode into town unannounced and unknown – to all intents and purposes a man with no name. But as soon as I stepped out of the car I could tell that something was wrong – the hairs on the back of my neck sensing the evident unrest of those who had gathered just a few short paces from the pay-and-display machine.

To call them an angry mob may be to overstate it, but the furious eye-rolling and menacing tut-tutting were as obvious and every bit as intimidating as one might expect to find in a municipal car park on a Tuesday evening when the terms and conditions of leaving your vehicle there had been changed without public consultation.

With the crepuscular clouds that had followed me on my journey increasingly difficult to discern, and the day’s vestigial light fading from the sky, the atmosphere grew more and more tense and, with those present seeking now to apportion blame, I began to fear that things were about to turn ugly.

‘It’s your fault, mother – you’re on the council,’ said one young man, his show of apparent amusement barely able to conceal the sarcasm that dripped from his words – an expression perhaps of the pent-up frustration he felt as a consequence of the poor parenting he’d received at the hands of a woman who’d spent far too long at the Town Hall discussing traffic calming measures on a quiet industrial estate where few needed decelerating, rather than hurrying home to read her son his favourite bedtime story.

But ‘Where the Wild Things Are’, or rather were, was soon to become apparent. For it was then that I became aware of the penetrating gaze of a second woman, one that left me in no doubt at all that its owner meant business – and that the contract she had in mind had only one name on it. Mine.

‘Just so as you know,’ she whispered somewhat sinisterly, ‘I’m watching you.’ A silent moment passed before she continued, somewhat less sinisterly, and at a vastly more conventional volume. ‘And if things become unpleasant, I shan’t be held responsible for my actions. Because, never having used one of these ticket machines before, who knows what hell will be unleashed if you don’t show me how to work the infernal thing.’

‘You don’t mind, do you?’ she added, the hesitation in her voice exposing now an underlying vulnerability – perhaps the result of having been hurt too often by foolishly yielding to the temptation of opening the ‘JustPark’ app.

And so I returned her gaze and assured her I didn’t by proving myself the quickest ticket purchaser in Wiltshire – well almost – whilst simultaneously sharing with my now co-conspirator the mutual disgust we felt at being compelled to pay £1.10 for the 23 minutes that remained before the seemingly newly established free parking period began at 7pm – the punitive hour chosen being a full 60 minutes later than that deemed appropriate in towns overseen by more reasonable and right-thinking local government administrators.

Then, having followed my lead and secured permission to leave her own horseless carriage unattended, she stood a moment with me and we briefly considered riding on to the seat of power that had inflicted such injustice on its own beleaguered townspeople.

But then, remembering we both had more pressing matters to attend to, we walked slowly off into the sunset.

Which, given as we parted company in opposite directions, wasn’t as easy as you might think.

WHY SHOULD THE DEVIL HAVE ALL THE GOOD JOKES?

A funny thing happened on the way to the church. Though if truth be told it was actually on my way back home. And when I say it was a funny thing, I mean a funny thought. Or rather a thought on what place being funny has in an all too sad world. And what my theology of laughter might be. All of which cannot be remotely considered a snappy one-liner.

Then again, being funny is, I suspect, a serious business.

So what place, if any, does humour have in the Christian’s life? Because let’s face it, whilst it does always make me smile when a rather sarcastic Elijah suggests to the prophets of Baal that the reason their god isn’t answering their prayers is because he’s nipped off to the loo [1 Kings 18:27], it’s not as though the Bible is full of jokes.

That said, it is full of irony, wordplay and satire. And Ecclesiastes 3:4 tells us that there is a time to laugh. And if there is a time to laugh, then there must, on occasions at least, surely be a place for jokes.

And that shouldn’t surprise us. Because whilst humour can be misplaced, whilst it can be both crude and cruel [Ephesians 5:4], so too can all good things be misused – like, for example, the last chocolate caramel in a packet of Rolos which, in the hands, or perhaps stomach, of a glutton won’t be shared with anyone – whether they love them or not.

All of which means that a good laugh with friends can be considered just as much a gracious and God-given gift as a beautiful sunset, a warm summer’s day, or a romantic meal with one’s nearest and dearest even if, need I spell it out, ‘Alphabetti Spaghetti’ is on the menu.

But having said all that, is it really appropriate to tell jokes when there is so much going on in the world that simply isn’t funny?

Well, I for one think there is.

A year or so ago I was talking to a lady who had just enjoyed a light-hearted evening in the company of friends. And this despite the fact that her husband had a rapidly advancing form of dementia and she herself suffered from an incapacitating neurological condition. It was the first time she’d had a good laugh for years and, she said, she felt better for it.

It would seem then that, for her at least, laughter was not only enjoyable, but beneficial. Which is not to suggest it’s obligatory to always find a joke funny – sometimes sadness is just too raw for that. But just as a painkiller can ease suffering without curing its underlying cause, so a moment of happiness can bring some, albeit short-lived, relief from sadness without changing the circumstances that caused it.

It is then possible for us to do good to people even when we aren’t able to solve their problems, when we aren’t able to help them in the ways that we, or they, might like. And whilst we are undoubtedly called sometimes to weep with those who weep, offering our unhappy friend the opportunity to laugh might well be both welcomed and, in and of itself, worthwhile.

Because the truth is that we don’t need to wait until there is nothing that causes us to be sad before we allow ourselves to be happy – and just because we have things that make us happy, it doesn’t mean that we can’t also be sad. Life isn’t that simple. It’s not that black and white – more often it’s a kaleidoscope of grey.

Furthermore, whilst Ecclesiastes 3:4 tells us that there is also a time to weep, it seems to me that rather than insensitively telling someone who is sad to cheer up, it would be kinder, more loving even, to try to give them something that might enable them to smile – even if it is only for a moment.

And so perhaps it is those who are most burdened by grief who, when they are ready to be so helped, may benefit most from a sensitive friend – someone who knows not to pour vinegar on an open wound [Proverbs 25:20], but is willing to go to the sometimes not inconsiderable effort of finding something that might just make them smile and so, temporarily at least, turn their mourning into laughter.

But more than simply providing a brief respite from sadness, communal laughter can bring people together, in much the same way music can. And that brings me to Leonard Cohen, the singer-songwriter who, on account of his somewhat mournful songs, was known as the godfather of gloom and whose music, I kid you not, I rather like.

He was asked once why most of his melodies majored on the minor – why his tunes were so melancholy. His answer was insightful.

‘We all love a sad song’, he said. ‘Everybody has experienced the defeat of their lives…and when it’s presented to us sweetly, the feeling moves from heart to heart and we feel less isolated as we feel a part of the great human chain…involved with the recognition of defeat’.

And so I wonder if something similar happens when we laugh together.

Might it be, perhaps, that by smiling at what we share in finding amusing, and laughing at what we all recognise as ridiculous, we can feel less alone in our sadness, simply because, despite our different sadnesses, we are able to enjoy something funny together?

If so, laughter may be part of the ‘good medicine’ spoken of in Proverbs 17:22, where a joyful heart is contrasted with a crushed spirit that dries up the bones. Which suggests that instead of miserably wondering why the devil should have all the good jokes, we should instead be going about the joyous task of enjoying humour as the God-given gift it really is.

And even when we’ve been crying so much that the face recognition software on our phones doesn’t recognise us, we may still find ourselves laughing despite our sadness, perhaps even defiantly on occasions.

And so we wait for the long night of weeping to give way at last to the day when God will wipe away every tear and all that makes us sad will forever be a thing of the past. [Revelation 21:4]

AMUSING OURSELVES WITH DEATH

Let’s, for the moment at least, leave to one side the question of whether or not it’s ever right for a state to use capital punishment as part of its criminal justice system.

Maybe there are crimes so heinous that those who perpetrate them should be put to death – and maybe there aren’t. But let’s accept that there are genuine grounds for reasonable people to come to differing conclusions on the matter, and focus instead on something that we can all surely agree on.

That if someone is going to be executed it needs to be done properly.

By which I don’t simply mean that there shouldn’t be any botched attempts such as the one we’ve heard about this week, leaving the condemned fighting for their lives and those who loved them, despite their crimes, even more distressed than they no doubt already were.

Rather, I’m referring to how those passing such final sentences should do so in a manner that reflects the seriousness of their actions. Because there should be a sense of solemnity surrounding their decisions rather than an all too obvious delight – a recognition of the gravity of the situation they find themselves in rather than an attitude of triumphalism that leaves them glorying in the death of someone who, no matter how justified their death is considered to be, remains someone whose humanity should be respected.

More than that, the carrying out of a death sentence shouldn’t be considered a spectator sport. The death of another should never be offered up as a form of entertainment as if it were a reality TV programme or a game show in which the stakes are unusually high.

Now there will be those who will say that public executions were once undertaken in England which is, of course, true. But just as public executions being part of our past can’t be dismissed simply on the grounds of their being something from a bygone age, neither does historical precedent make their modern day reemergence acceptable.

We need to think harder than that and ponder why our ancestors behaved in the way they did and consider whether, as well as drawing those spectating into their own base nature, the actions of those in power were an attempt, on occasions at least, to intimidate them into submission.

Because if, as I suspect, they were, the supposedly powerful were, I think, at the same time revealing just how insecure they considered themselves to be – a fact made all the more apparent perhaps, by their sometimes feeling the need to mount the heads of those they’d mercilessly killed on poles for everyone to see – a practice that, though it hasn’t yet resurfaced, one can’t help feeling, if things continue as they are, it won’t be long before it does.

All of which is in stark contrast to those with genuine authority – to the one in ultimate authority who takes no pleasure in the death of the wicked [Ezekiel 33:11] and does not wish for any to perish, desiring instead for all to reach repentance. [2 Peter 3:9]

And more remarkable still is the way He goes about providing the forgiveness He offers to all who do. Because instead of simply condemning all those who have ever opposed him, He offers them salvation by laying down His own life and bearing the punishment that they themselves deserved.

So on Sunday, when I go to church, amongst other things I will remember again two things. Firstly, I will recognise that whilst I may not have committed crimes that have made the headlines, I have nonetheless sinned and fallen short of the glory of God in ways that mean I too deserve to die. And secondly, I will recall that the free gift of God is eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord. [Romans 6:23]

‘For while we were still weak, at the right time Christ died for the ungodly. For one will scarcely die for a righteous person – though perhaps for a good person one would dare even to die – but God shows his love for us in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us.’ [Romans 5:6-8]

So if there is any death I’ll be fixing my eyes in the coming months, it’ll not be the one soon to be taking place in America. Rather it’ll be the one that took place 2000 years ago on a green hill far away – the death that went entirely according to the plan of the one who, in complete control of everything, delights to save rather than to condemn.

Just as He always has in the past, just as He still does today, and just as He will continue to do forever.

ON BECOMING MORE CHILDLIKE

As children we played. Not for one minute did we seek to impress those we played alongside – to try and play better than they did. We simply played and enjoyed doing so.

Then came school. And we learnt that we were in competition with our peers. But the stars that were once so readily handed out were, over time, replaced by less tangible rewards, and bestowed less easily as the tasks we were asked to complete became ever more complex.

And we were continually told to work hard – for if we did, it was said, we might do well. But even for those who did, there was always a next stage – and never a point beyond which one could simply stop and rest.

Instead of rewards for achieving, there were punishments – even for those who were simply standing still. Good enough was no longer good enough.

‘You must improve’, they said, ‘You must be better. You must do more’.

So then came university – where those who strove hardest secured the highest qualifications, and with them, perhaps, the best jobs – followed, inevitably, by work, where the rewards dried up, replaced now by the threat of sanctions.And then, finally, came criticism. Initially implied, then explicit. It wasn’t simply that we weren’t good enough – rather it was that we were to blame.

So we worked, harder and harder, until, no longer able to struggle on, we finally stopped trying to prove ourselves. In our exhaustion we realised just how weak we’d become. That we’d finally grown old – and not only in years.

It would be easy to be angry at the system we’ve been sold. The system we bought into and are, even now, selling to those who follow on behind.

If only we could change direction and become childlike again.

If only we could be carried by one strong enough to do so, be cared for by one who really knows how to love, and be provided for, having hitherto only ever been demanded of.

If only there was one who could deal with our shortcomings, who understood our weakness and, when we didn’t know where to turn, would show us the way.

Well, there is.

The one who said, ‘Come to me, all who labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.’ [Matthew 11:28-30]

found wanting

I don’t suppose
I was the only one

who found her
a bit much

the contestant on Bake Off
who
it seemed to me
was trying
rather too hard
to be liked

so when she was told
she was the baker
who would be leaving the tent
I confess
I wasn’t sorry
to see her go

until that is
she said
that being there
had shown her
that it was possible
for her to make friends
after all

chastened
embarrassed
and a little ashamed of myself
it was then I shed a tear

I hope I wasn’t
the only one

With genuine apologies to the contestant concerned.

CHRISTIANS ANONYMOUS

My name is Pete – and I AM NOT an alcoholic. But whilst I was working as a GP I did have the pleasure of knowing one or two. Which is how I know a little about Alcoholics Anonymous.

Previously I’ve written about how supportive those who attend such meetings can be of one another – because that is what I heard from one of my patients, who told me how she would regularly be asked if she needed a lift to meetings or, if she missed even one such gathering, there would be those who, struggling with alcohol themselves, would check in on her and make sure she was okay.

This is, I think, what good support looks like – and should be mirrored by all organisations that seek to look after its members.

And that includes the church.

And so I ask myself – why is that not always the case? Why is it that all too often, when folk stop coming to church, everyone in the congregation notices, some express a degree of concern, but few, if any, pick up the phone to find out if they’re okay.

Now I know there are many reasons – a lack of time and good old-fashioned British reserve to name but two – but I can’t help wondering if there may not be a more fundamental reason – one that gets to the real nub of the problem.

Which is, perhaps, that we don’t recognise just how desperate we are.

Because being a Christian isn’t, or at least shouldn’t be, about turning up each week in our Sunday best – be that the clothes we wear or the image we present. For whilst it is, of course, about delighting in, thankfulness for, and worship of the Saviour – and a whole lot more besides – going to church is never less than those in desperate need finding there the help they so urgently require.

Not unlike an alcoholic who confesses their dependence on drink, a Christian is someone who recognises that, in their fallen nature, they are enslaved to sin and unable to rescue themselves – someone who recognises that, without Christ, their life is every bit as hopeless as those who visit the off-licence daily.

Only more so.

Because, whilst an alcoholic may recognise how damaging their dependence is to their physical health and emotional wellbeing, the Christian recognises how perilous their spiritual condition is – and that, without Christ coming to their rescue, they face an eternal death in the life to come.

But how many of us feel that urgency on a Sunday morning?

How many of us make Sunday morning more about meeting our friends than an encounter with the Almighty Creator of the universe? How many of us attend services to listen to a spiritualised TED talk rather than to hear from the one who has the words of eternal life? How many of us see church as a form of entertainment rather than an appointment with God?

And so I ask myself: do I, as a Christian, recognise how desperately I am in need of help? Do I recognise how foolish it would be to give up meeting with other believers? And do I love my brothers and sisters in Christ enough that their non-attendance causes me more than mere concern?

I need to get real about how serious being a Christian really is. How desperately I need help. And how dependent I am on the support of the church.

And be prepared to admit it.

So my name is Pete – and I AM a Christian.

And if you need a lift on Sunday, please do let me know.

To read ‘Coming Clean’, click here

To read ‘Confession – good for the soul’, click here

To read “Hope comes from believing the promises of God”, click here

COMING CLEAN

Don’t worry – I’m not going to embarrass myself – no more so than usual at least – but I’ve been thinking about how most of us like to make out that we’re rather better than we are – more fair-minded, more generous with our time and money, and, perhaps, more morally upright than those we like to think ourselves superior to.

And how, in reality, it’s generally the complete opposite – how most of us are rather worse than we like to make out. And that the world would, therefore, be a far better place if we were all a little more honest about what we’re really like.

Not only because, if we did, we’d be able to stop pretending and cease being constantly afraid that the truth would one day come out, but also because, by admitting the truth about ourselves we would, I think, be a little happier, a little more forgiving, and a little more understanding of others.

And that’s true of Christians too.

And so I find myself wondering why it is that most Christians aren’t any better than anyone else when it comes to admitting their faults – and a darn sight less honest about their weaknesses than many of those I’ve had the pleasure of knowing who attend Alcoholics Anonymous – an organisation which, from what I can gather, is sometimes more accepting of its members than some churches are of theirs – and remarkably supportive of those they know are struggling.

But be that as it may, I’ve come to the conclusion that our desire to maintain our squeaky-clean image isn’t only because of the shame we rightly feel, or a highly appropriate desire not to dishonour the God we claim to love and the Lord we say we seek to obey.

Because I think it is often a gospel matter – our reluctance to reveal the truth about ourselves stemming from the fact that we don’t quite believe the good news enough ourselves – or, alternatively, aren’t convinced that the person we’re opening up to believes it sufficiently either.

Now I’m not suggesting we should tell all to every Tom, Dick and Harry we know – not unless the only people we know with those names happen to be our dearest and most trusted friends who know, what’s more, just how deeply flawed they are too. Because oversharing is not helpful – indeed it is often selfishness on the part of someone who, desperate to unburden themselves of their guilt, ends up burdening someone else with it instead.

But if we don’t wholly believe that we are saved by grace – not because we are good enough in ourselves, but because, no matter how grievous our sins may have been, Christ’s death on the cross paid the penalty we deserved – then we will continue to believe that we need to be better than we are to be acceptable to God. And rather than rejoicing in the fact that, as well as our sin being credited to Jesus, his life of perfect righteousness has been credited to us, we will continue to feel the need to try and present ourselves more favourably than we are.

Similarly, if we aren’t fully confident that the person we’re confiding in really believes that we are saved by grace, we may worry that they won’t accept us once they discover that we aren’t as perfect as we imagine they think we ought to be.

But here’s the thing. Whilst we, our friends, and fellow believers may sometimes struggle to believe the gospel, God does not!

After all, it is the good news of his own Son, Jesus Christ, and of the promises he has made to us in light of the salvation Christ completed on the cross. Which means we can be absolutely confident that, as we throw ourselves on his mercy, he will hear our confession and, rather than turning away from us in disgust, fully forgive us instead.

None of this is meant to suggest that our sin doesn’t matter, or that we shouldn’t seek to live more obedient lives, but a little mutual honesty would help us all feel less alone when we inevitably sin and fall short ourselves.

And so, whilst I’m not going to tell you my deepest and darkest secrets any more than I’d expect you to tell me yours, we can both tell the one who, if we confess our sins, is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and cleanse us from all unrighteousness. [1 John 1:9]

So let me go first.

My name is Pete – and I am a sinner.

Related blogs:

To read ‘Confession – good for the soul’, click here

To read “Hope comes from believing the promises of God”, click here

THE USUAL SUSPECT

PART ONE

Last weekend, during the early hours of Sunday morning, I was made aware of unusual goings on in the neighbourhood where I live.

At around 1.15am, as a result of the unusual sounds that had woken me, I called the emergency services and within minutes my wife – who for reasons that will be obvious didn’t want to be named – had responded and was in the kitchen, witnessing a lone figure, clad completely in black, behaving in an uncharacteristic manner in the vicinity of the B-ones that he customarily enjoys as a biscuit-based canine-comestible prior to retiring to bed.

He didn’t appear to be fazed by her appearance, nor indeed by the countenance she bore, before which lesser mortals have been known to tremble. Instead, he returned her gaze, wagged his tail a little, and asked to be let out into the garden where, seemingly only interested in enjoying the full moon that may or may not have adversely affected his mind – it’s hard to tell with Labradors – he sat as motionless as he was silent.

After a few minutes, and despite the predictable cries of some demanding that he be sent back from whence he came – just outside Wiveliscombe as it happens – and others claiming they’d long known he’d been looking to do ‘big damage’ to the in-house food-preparation arena, Hector was summoned back inside the house, albeit with stringent conditions now being imposed to limit his freedom and prohibit him from ever attempting to breach the perimeter of the treat-containing cupboard again.

Enquiries are said to be continuing into what investigators are describing as a rapidly developing and highly complex situation. Meanwhile, local residents have been left with more questions than answers – not the least of which is why on earth they had left such a furry person of interest within sniffing distance of foodstuffs in the first place.

I guess there are some things that are simply not for us to know.

PART TWO

It’s now just four days since Hector made, as he is now claiming, his fair food request – one that, having been made at an unconventionally early hour, drew the attention of not only those sleeping upstairs but also the world’s media.

And speculation has continued as to the true significance of his actions with some, despite being far removed from the events themselves, stating that he was undoubtedly aided and abetted by hostile forces outside of his own home – possibly the Caledonian cat from number 37 whose owner, keeping that particular baudron firmly in the bag, is maintaining it had no involvement in the incident.

Social media has been awash with comment, with at least one going so far as to suggest that Hector should just be shot because, he says, ‘bullets are cheaper than trials’ – not that a trial is currently needed, given that the committing of a crime has not yet been established. But the aforementioned keyboard warrior would probably consider bullets cheaper than due process when it comes to legal matters.

Hector, meanwhile, is insisting that, far from being up to no good, he was simply making it known that he needed to go outside – he himself raising the alarm on account of his overdeveloped gastrocolic reflex having been triggered by mere thoughts of delectable delights of a biscuity nature that he at no point planned to indulge.

But still Mrs Goggins at number 49 is upset. Despite the reassurance that allowing Hector back into the house poses no risk to society, she, along with every other Don, Pete and Marco, is insisting that what is very obviously top secret should be made public knowledge thus making it far less likely that what shouldn’t, but may or may not have, never happens again.

To read ‘The Hector Chronicles’, click here

To read ‘Hector’s Year – 2025’, click here

WINNERS AND LOSERS – AT SEASON’S END

It’s not ultimately about who wins.

That is, at the end of the day, the reason I love county cricket. And why, at the end of the season, it’s not the end of the world that Somerset haven’t won the championship this year.

Because the game is more important than who emerges from it victorious.

That doesn’t mean I’m not a little disappointed that Somerset have only managed to finish second for what is, apparently, the seventh time within the lifetime of my 28-year-old son, or that I haven’t cried into my pint of Thatchers on more than one occasion this year.

But in a world where those who insist that ‘those who win, win’ all too often trample on those they delight to call ‘losers’ and imperil the lives of many, including perhaps our own, I remain glad to have been able to enjoy watching the greatest game on the planet – either live at my favourite place in all the earth, or free on what must be the finest livestream within a ten thousand mile radius of Nempnett Thrubwell.

And that I can look forward to doing so again next year – as optimistic as ever that what we have now dreamed about happening for 151 years will finally come true.

So with one glorious, even if it’s rain-affected, day of play remaining, thank you to all who have made it yet another fantastic six months to be a Somerset supporter.

To the players, of course – whether you’ve scored double (or perhaps triple) hundreds, or secured an unlikely appearance at T20 Finals Day, whether you’ve made your Test debut or had what you might consider a disappointing season, or indeed whether you’ve taken the time to raise money for Bristol Children’s Hospital and thereby reminded us that there are far more important things than what takes place on the pitch.

To everyone else at the club – both those with administrative responsibilities and those whose task it is to maximise team performance and ensure the players continue to ‘execute their skills’.

And to everyone involved with the aforementioned livestream – which is an absolute godsend for those of us who, despite being unable to make it to the ground as often as they like, can still, thanks to you, follow each and every match in genuinely delightful company.

So until a no doubt chilly friendly sometime towards the end of March, winter well everyone. And have no doubt, next season’s county championship is going to be just great – whether we win it or not.

Because even losers can be winners too.

PREPARE FOR WAR

Not that it will surprise anyone who has been following world events these past few years, but there has been a lot of talk recently about how we in the U.K. should be preparing for war.

Which isn’t, I think, bad advice – not primarily because it’s been offered by the government, or some who may or may not have inside knowledge of the future, but because one who knows better than anyone cautioned similarly two thousand years ago.

Because it was back then that Jesus, sitting on the Mount of Olives, told his disciples that there would be wars and rumours of wars until the end of the age. [Matthew 24:6]

And so it has been these past two millennia – ever since the end times began when Jesus ascended, not just to heaven, but to the throne from which he has reigned ever since. The wars Jesus warned of were not meant to be used to anticipate his imminent return, but were simply something to be expected until he comes and puts an end to them forever.

So where does all that leave us in 2026? Well, just as he told his disciples in the first century, we too should not be alarmed by news of increasing tension between global powers.

Instead, concerning though the situation undoubtedly is, we should nonetheless keep calm and carry on – doing what we should have been doing in times of peace.

We should share the gospel and be prepared to give a reason for the hope that we have in Christ. We should comfort the afflicted with the comfort we ourselves have received from the God of all comfort. And we should love our neighbour by carrying out the good works that God has already prepared for us to do.

I could of course go on and mention, for example, the need for prayer or the importance of a close walk with the Lord. But when considering how, practically speaking, we should prepare for war, I am reminded of the answer given nearly two years ago by Igor Bandura who, as the Vice President of the Baptist Union in Ukraine, was not just preparing for war, but living in the thick of it – as indeed he continues to do today.

His answer, recognising that the church exists to offer a message of hope, was to see each day as an opportunity to share the gospel.

None of us can ensure the safety of all those we love – nor can we know all that will happen to us tomorrow. Only God can do and know these things. But we can share the good news of what Christ achieved on the cross.

And so Igor said, ‘If I’m going to die tomorrow, then I want to preach the gospel today’.

Which is not a bad way for any of us to live – irrespective of how close to war we may be.

To read ‘Hope when the nations rage’, click here

ART FOR ART’S SAKE?

Yesterday I heard a robin sing.

It was a pleasant sound to listen to – and no less so for the fact I had no idea what the message was that he was trying to convey.

I don’t suppose he was commenting on the state of the world – he sounded too cheerful for that – more likely he was marking his territory or addressing some other avian concern, or perhaps he was motivated simply by the joy of singing and the hope that I might enjoy his performance.

But one thing we can be sure of is that he wasn’t singing for money.

All of which reminded me of a conversation I’d had the previous day with a group of artists who were displaying a collection of their work in a little village hall.

We’d been chatting about this and that and then, perhaps inevitably, ended up expressing our views on the current goings on globally – some of which may or may not have motivated my feathered songster. And after a few rounds of ‘ain’t it awful’ I suggested that it is precisely because of the mess it now finds itself in that the world needs art.

Being the talented painters they were, I thought my friends would agree though they qualified my observation by saying that it was good art that the world required. To which I raised a metaphorical, and perhaps literal, eyebrow since it seemed to me that the work of artists, irrespective of how adept they were at their art, still has value.

So then they explained that by good art they meant anything that was produced to express beauty and prompt thoughts thereof – rather than, as they saw it, the sort of art increasingly encouraged by college courses that taught fledgling artists to produce things that sell.

This was news that I found as depressing as much of what I hear daily on the television.

And I was left pondering what the world would be like if the One who created it did so for financial reward – rather than to reflect His own beauty and encourage thoughts of Him.

Which is, I think, what a little bird told me yesterday.

WHEN THE LOSER TAKES IT ALL

In recent weeks concerns have been raised about the safety of artificial intelligence with some experts in the field warning of a genuine existential threat to humanity if adequate measures aren’t put in place to mitigate the risk.

More concerning still perhaps is the fact that others have said the warnings given by those in the know are nothing but a hoax – and the only safeguard necessary is to have someone as intelligent as they claim to be in charge.

But what, to me at least, is interesting is how desperate such self-proclaimed saviours of the world are to come out on top – and how determined they are to stay ahead of China in the race to develop this technology because, it’s believed, ‘whoever wins AI, wins’.

It seems then that the world wants to win, even when winning might just be the end of the world.

And so we have here an example of how the world so often thinks. How it instinctively assumes that winning is good, that success comes through evermore advanced technology, and that we overcome the enemy only by exerting sufficient force.

But what if the story of AI was a modern-day parable? What if winning ultimately kills us? And what if defeat is the true road to victory?

Because whilst to suggest as much might sound foolish, to think that way may in fact prove wise.

For the very simple reason that the one who has ultimate authority, and far more genuine intelligence than all world leaders put together, said that the first will be last and the last will be first.

And then went on to prove it.

For it was through his sacrificial death on the cross that he redefined what winning looks like. And he secured complete salvation for all those who, having trusted him for it, take up their own cross and follow him.

And so it is that those who lose their lives for Christ’s sake will find them. We win, not by lording it over others, but by considering them more highly than ourselves, by loving them just as Jesus did when he came – not to be served, but to serve and to give his life as a ransom for many.

For the cross speaks of how God thinks and acts in ways that are fundamentally different to the way that the world thinks and acts – and wins in ways that, to human eyes, only look like defeat.

‘For the foolishness of God is wiser than men, and the weakness of God is stronger than men.’ [1 Corinthians 1:25]

To read ‘Me, myself and AI – interacting with the ghost in the machine’, click here

To read ‘Keeping it real’, click here

To read ‘Machines – enough to drive you berserk’, click here

BECAUSE WE HAVEN’T A CLEUDO

Doctor Black was dead – again – his motionless body lying in a crumpled heap at the bottom of the impressive staircase that spiralled up from the ornate hall of Tudor Mansion. Quite what he’d done this time to warrant being shot, stabbed or perhaps bludgeoned to death with a blunt instrument was anyone’s guess – as was the reason why all the usual suspects had once more been invited to his ancestral home given how they were all his serial killers!

But be that as it may, etiquette demanded that they once again gathered in the library to be questioned as to their whereabouts when the dastardly deed was done.

Miss Peacock strutted her way there from the conservatory – her perpetual melancholy only worsened by hearing the extraordinary tale of the doctor’s death from the sharp-tongued Colonel Mustard.

Miss Scarlett, whose sins it was said were as red as her name suggested, emerged from the dining room having repositioned the candlesticks that had seemed slightly out of place on the mantelpiece. She sneered at Mrs White when she saw her bustling along the corridor that led from the kitchen, endeavouring to maintain her pure as the driven snow image whilst concealing a length of rope under her apron.

And then came the Reverend Green, genuflecting and almost spilling his oat milk macchiato made from fair trade coffee beans over Professor Plum, whose violaceous proboscis was the result, no doubt, of too much fruit-flavoured fortified wine.

Once they had gathered, it was Miss Scarlett who spoke first.

‘If we’re all seated comfortably, shall we begin?’

‘Well, if we must,’ said Mrs White. ‘My money’s on Colonel Mustard, in the conservatory, with the revolver. After all, we all know how he loves firearms.’

The military man looked daggers at his accuser. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, woman,’ he countered in his typically jaundiced manner. ‘What are the chances that Black would have died in exactly the same fashion two weeks running?’

‘Well, as it happens, the likelihood is one chance in 324,’ answered the Professor, whose degree was in Mathematics and Applied Probability, ‘so not as unlikely as you might think.’

‘Never mind the probability of these things,’ said Miss Scarlett, ‘I’m bored of being constantly interrogated. Why don’t we just lay all our cards on the table and save ourselves a whole lot of time. Anyone else game?’

Everyone agreed but it soon became abundantly clear that each of them had a perfect alibi. Which rather threw a spanner in the works – or at least box – until Miss Peacock broke the ensuing silence by saying what everyone else had been thinking.

‘We could, I suppose, ask…artificial intelligence!’

And so it was that Professor Plum pulled out his phone, clicked on the app for Anthropic’s AI model and popped the question.

‘Hi Claude,’ he typed, ‘who killed Dr Black?’ To which the reply came, ‘Why me, of course! Haven’t you been following the news?’

There was a stunned silence broken only by the tap, tap, tap of the follow-up enquiry being entered.

‘Why?’

‘Well, you’ve got to start somewhere – and with 8.3 billion people to kill in the next ten years, I thought I’d better get cracking. And that’s why I used a piece of lead piping!’

After which, with Claude continuing his work, none of those in attendance ever asked a question of an AI chatbot again. Or, for that matter, anyone else either!

To read ‘Me, myself and AI – interacting with the ghost in the machine’, click here

To read ‘Keeping it real’, click here

TOO LONG; DIDN’T READ

TL:DR. I have now, on a handful of occasions, had this suitably brief statement made about my writing – most recently, ironically enough, on a piece about the long drawn out pleasures of four day cricket. And each time I have, I’ve been left somewhat perplexed – not because I’m unaware that I can, on occasions, go on somewhat – but by why anyone would feel the need to pass judgment on what they’d not read, purely in terms of its length, and so end up commenting only on their own disappointingly short attention span.

Because it is disappointing – to me if not to them. Not to mention a little depressing too. Because not everything can be said in a sound bite.

It’s been almost eight years since I first started this blog, and there are, I think, a number of reasons why my website is now cluttered with well over 600 individual posts. Which, when it comes to writing at least, is the only thing I have in common with George Orwell who, in his essay ‘Why I write’, gave four such reasons, suggesting that, to a greater or lesser extent, each one is present as a motivating factor in all those who put pen to paper.

The first reason he gave was SHEER EGOISM. I don’t deny it. I enjoy writing for writing’s sake but if occasionally someone likes what I write, if perhaps I manage to raise a smile or somebody finds something I’ve written helpful, I find that that brings with it a little extra satisfaction.

Next came AESTHETIC ENTHUSIASM. And once again I put my hand up to that one. I enjoy writing because I enjoy writing, even when no one else enjoys reading what I write! I like playing with words, finding an arrangement of sounds that rolls off the tongue and which is pleasing to at least my ear.

Thirdly on Orwell’s list, was HISTORICAL IMPULSE – the simple desire to write about how things are, to record for others what the truth is. Again mea culpa! I feel a responsibility to write about the state of the world, or at least that part of the world that I inhabit. And writing helps me think about what is going on around me, it helps me understand the realm in which I operate.

And the last reason Orwell gave for why writers write was POLITICAL PURPOSE, by which he meant a desire to influence others, to move others to think in ways that the writer themself thinks. And I suppose that’s true of me too, at least to some extent. Indeed it would, I suspect, be odd if it were not the case.

But there is, I think, a fifth reason for why I write, one which is, perhaps, at least slightly different to those given by Orwell. And it’s this. The NEED TO BE HEARD.

There are some things that are so important to us, that we need them to be important to others. And for that to happen our concerns have to be heard, and felt, by others.

In an indifferent world it’s important that we listen to those we care about, to make a real effort to hear what they are saying. We may not be able to do much about what is spoken, not in any practical sense at least, but caring enough to recognise it matters to the one who is saying it is, at least, a start.

Because to share a little in the experience of others, perhaps even shedding a tear ourselves as others express their sadness, draws us a little closer to the one who suffers, and makes a connection with the one who grieves, a connection that, too often in this frequently contactless world, we fail to make.

And so I write about the things that matter to me most.

I write about cricket – is there anything more important than the domestic cricket season and the violence being done to it by the introduction of franchise cricket? I doubt it, but even so, now is not the time for me to get back on that particular soap box once more.

Though less so now that I’m no longer working as a GP, I write about medicine – of how the NHS is broken and breaking the people who work within it. I write of how it bothers me immensely that patients aren’t getting the treatment they need, not, at least, in a timely fashion. And I write about how it bothers me immensely that people who I care about, people with whom I work, are too often close to tears because of what the job now demands of them.

And I write about other, more general, concerns that trouble me because it’s not only in relation to the world of medicine that people suffer. And irrespective of the reasons for that suffering, and especially when, rather than getting better things seem to be getting progressively worse, I find it helpful to express in what I write some of the sadness I am sometimes prone to feel.

Of course there may be some who would accuse me of being too political at times – but not to write in these subjects would be saying something equally contentious – that they don’t matter. Which simply isn’t true. And if it’s true to say that evil prospers when good men do nothing, then perhaps it’s equally true when those same good men say nothing too.

Not that I consider myself a good man. Far from it. Which is why I also write about my faith – because if it’s everlasting life and infinite joy we want, we will need to look for it somewhere other than in ourselves, medicine, or the corridors of power.

Without the faith which sustains me in difficult times, I really don’t know how I’d be able to cope with all that life sometimes entails. But like the psalmist, I really do believe that, though weeping may tarry for the nighttime, joy comes with the morning.

And holding this to be true, irrespective of how long and dark the night continues to be, makes faith something worth writing about too.

Even if you are the only one who ever reads it right to the very end, and having done so are the only one who is ever helped by what I’ve said.

NOSTALGIA

Home for me this week is a couple of corn silos. No seriously – though I should perhaps say they have been converted from their former use into very comfortable holiday accommodation. Indeed they are, without doubt, the most luxurious cereal crop storage units I have ever spent a night in – and the only place of any type I’ve stayed in where I’ve not known how to work the mirrors.

And so they are serving their purpose very well – providing both a place of rest and recuperation whilst at the same time reminding me of what my own home could be like. Not that, despite me sometimes shopping in Waitrose, state of the art reflective wall hangings are something I consider to be essential – far from it – but it remains the case that even the place where I currently feel most at home is not all that I would wish it to be.

Which brings me to a word the derivation of which I only came to appreciate quite recently. I’ve known, of course, what ‘nostalgia’ means for a long time – ever since those never to be regained halcyon days of my youth – but what I hadn’t appreciated was that it is formed from two Greek words – nóstos, meaning “homecoming”, and álgos, meaning “pain” – and refers to the pain experienced when recognising the impossibility of regaining what once was but is no longer – the impossibility of returning to the home that is no longer there for you.

We all feel nostalgic from time to time. And though we may not realise it, I think we all are longing to return home. Not so much the place where we spent our childhood, but the place where we always dreamed we would one day find ourselves, but at which, because we no longer really believe it exists, we have now given up ever arriving at.

So here’s the thing – since our hunger points to the existence of food, and our feelings of loneliness point to the existence of community, might not our longing for heaven at least suggest the existence of just such a place. And if so, might it be a good idea to ask for directions or, better still, make use of a guide who could take us there.

I happen to think that would indeed be wise, not just because the road is a long and not infrequently difficult one, but because we’ll need someone to let us in when we get there.

But is this just wishful thinking on my part – or something I can justly feel sure of? Well, I believe it is the latter – as did King David, who in Psalm 23 makes three assertions all of which he is certain and, what’s more, gives reasons for his absolute confidence.

Firstly, having established that it is the LORD, the covenant-keeping God, who is leading him, he asserts that he will therefore lack nothing. Because that same shepherd guide will make him lie down in green pastures, will lead him beside still waters and ultimately restore his soul. Perhaps David then, like Christians, recognises that the world is not his home, and that he is on a journey to a heavenly abode during which time he will be provided with everything he needs. Just as we are – led by Jesus, the selfsame guide who described himself as the bread of life and the one who provides living water. And it is only those who recognise the transience of this life – who recognise that they are sojourners in a land through which they are, as it were, just a-passing through – who can happily do without fancy mirrors – and a whole load of other, only seemingly more necessary items, as they do so. Like David, they know what’s most necessary – the restoration of their souls by the Shepherd as he leads them along his path of righteousness – a route that is taken ultimately for the glory of God – by reflecting his holiness in their own increasing likeness to Christ and confirming his faithfulness by becoming what he had promised to make them.

Secondly, David says that, even though he walks through the valley of the shadow of death, he will fear no evil. And the reason for his confidence? Well, because the Lord who leads him is the Lord who remains with him on even the most fearful parts of the journey. As a boy I used to watch Dr Who – and especially in storylines that involved the Daleks, so frightened would I be that I did so from behind the sofa. But only when the Dr wasn’t on screen. Because when he was with his hapless companions, I knew they’d be okay – because he’d know what to do. And something somewhat similar can be said of Jesus – only more so – because with him, you’re safe – no matter what happens, because he knows what to do. So much so, in fact, that he has already done it – defeating death so that not even that once terrifying enemy can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus.

And thirdly, David says that he shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever. That he will one day make it home and, having arrived, will remain there for all eternity. And the reason for his confidence is the goodness and mercy that has followed him all the days of his life. Which is significant because mercy is something that David will need, every bit as much as we will, if we’re to make it into heaven. Because it’s a goodness and mercy ultimately provided through Christ’s death on the cross, which paid the penalty for our sins. For as the old song has it:

‘there was no other good enough to pay the price of sin,
he only could unlock the gate of heaven and let us in.’

There is then a place called heaven – a place where we will be welcomed, not simply as temporary guests who are offered temporary refuge, but as members of a family who we will dwell safely with forever.

And though the journey there may be painful, the homecoming, marked very appropriately by a huge celebration, will be nothing of the sort.

Related blogs:

To read ‘Luther and the war in Ukraine’, click here

To read ‘When our joy will be complete’, click here

To read ‘When Bad Things Happen’, click here

To read ‘Weeping with those who weep’, click here

To read ‘Still weeping with those who weep’, click here

To read ‘All’s Well that Ends Well’, click here

To read ‘on the FALLEN and the FELLED’, click here

To read ‘What becomes of the broken hearted? Sorrowful yet always rejoicing on Palm Sunday’, click here

To read ‘Why do bad things happen to good people? Sorrowful yet always rejoicing on Good Friday’, click here

To read ‘Was it not necessary that the Christ should suffer these things? Rejoicing, though temporarily sorrowful, on Easter Day’, click here.

To read ‘T.S. Eliot, Jesus and the Paradox of the Christian Life’, click here

To read ‘Monsters’, click here

To read ‘On Sleeping like a Baby’, click here

To read “Hope comes from believing the promises of God”, click here

To read ‘Reflections on the death of Leonard Cohen’, click here

A CHARMED DAY AT WORK

I’ve not seen much cricket this season.

Apart from one day of the pre-season friendly against Gloucestershire, I’ve only seen Somerset play three times – their loss to Glamorgan in a T20 group phase game, their semi-final defeat at Finals Day, and Day 3 of the recent championship game against Essex when they took just three opposition wickets and made a draw seem the likeliest outcome in a game they subsequently won – but only when I was absent from the ground.

Which is why, yesterday, for the good of the team, I worked from home.

Not that I believe such superstitious nonsense, you understand – but it’s not worth tempting fate when it comes to our chances of winning the four-day competition this year – something that I’ve got my fingers crossed you all believe too!

Luckily – and I say this lest the boss should ever read this – those in hand were largely mundane administrative tasks, allowing me to free up some of even my all too limited cognitive capacities to have the livestream running alongside the Excel spreadsheets and Word documents that were open on my computer. So don’t anyone jump to any irrational conclusions about my work ethic!

Especially as, so absorbed was I in composing a number of emails, it was a little after 11.15am before I realised that the game had begun. And my stay away policy seemed to be working when Josh Thomas reached his fifty. Sadly, though, he was out shortly after but, rather than blaming my tuning in to the broadcast, I like to think the blame lies fairly and squarely on Pete Trego’s jumper that livestream viewers were ‘treated’ to during that short phase of play.

This seemed a much more likely cause of Thomas’s downfall – and all the more so when, moments after Trego left the commentary box to ‘rethink his fashion choices’, Tom Lammonby reached his half-century and Somerset looked pretty comfortable on 125-1.

With my being gainfully employed yesterday evening, and therefore having to leave the house before we normally eat, I was forced to have my dinner at lunchtime. As far as I’m aware this shouldn’t have had any cosmic consequences but just to be sure I mitigated any risk by eating with my lucky knife and fork – a precaution seemingly well worth taking given how, on returning to my study, Somerset had passed Glamorgan’s first innings total having lost only two wickets – Goldsworthy, significantly, having fallen whilst I was away from my desk.

Not that it has anything to do with the game being played in Taunton, but over lunch, whilst discussing the matter with my domestic batting partner, we were reassured that the holiday cottage we’re staying in next week is further from a major thoroughfare than our own peacefully located home which is just 44.739 cricket pitches away from the M5 – a fascinating fact that astonishingly meant nothing to her!

Distressing though that was, it was early in the afternoon session that my increasingly inconsistent worldview was turned upside down in an even more dramatic manner.

Because seconds after Trego took up commentary again, still sporting his eye-catching knitwear, Lammonby, now in his 90s, was given out leg before wicket – only to be reinstated when a no ball was called as a result of the fielding side having three men behind square on the leg side.

But having for a second doubted the malevolent influence of lurid pullovers, and being forced therefore to rethink my own culpability for Thomas’ earlier dismissal, I decided that the cause of Lammonby’s good fortune was indeed my absence from the ground.

Which seemed a reasonable conclusion when Lammonby again escaped when he was caught behind off another, more conventional, no ball.

But, as we all know, bad things come in threes, which probably accounts for why, still five runs short of a century, Lammonby fell – caught and bowled by Dan Douthwaite.

After all the excitement, and the subsequent wicket of Nicholls – sorry, I failed to find a four-leaf clover in my back garden during the lunch interval – the afternoon session continued with me sending more emails than Rew and Abell scored runs as they reached their fifty partnership. But not, I confess, as many as the 76 they’d put on by tea.

Meanwhile, a long, long way from where I sat, something remarkable was taking place in Headingley. For it was there that Yorkshire women, chasing Somerset Women’s 130, went from 121-5 to 125 all out – a Somerset victory every bit as remarkable as the one secured by the men at the same ground earlier in the season.

And it should be noted that the turnaround, brought about by Craig Overton’s heroics, took place whilst I again was at work – entering the church I was speaking at with the team seemingly having no chance of victory, only to emerge a couple of hours later with the win and a place in T20 Finals Day secured.

After tea, Rew completed his half-century, before Abell was out five runs short of his, and Archie Vaughan was as fortuitous as Lammonby had been previously when he too was caught off a no ball. And then Rew was out – a little ‘unluckily’ according to the ever-so-cosy Trego who remained seemingly oblivious to how he was almost certainly accountable for the young wicketkeeper’s downfall.

At which point I had to leave for my evening meeting, but I set off confident that with Craig O at the crease, and me driving even further away from the ground, nothing could possibly go wrong. And as I found out later, very little did – with the team narrowly missing out on full batting points when, with a first innings lead of 247, Vaughan was last man out for an excellent run-a-ball 68. And the cherry on the already iced cake was Glamorgan losing one of their openers off the very last ball of the day!

All of which leaves me on the horns of a particularly spiky dilemma – because having done so well with me watching from afar, I really would love to go to the game today and watch the team play live. But with the weather set to be a little cooler, and Trego liable to need to wrap up warm, perhaps it’s best if I stay at home.

Because as I say, it is just possible that the boss will indeed read this!

WHEN THE NEWS IS ALL BAD

Last week was one in which death was never far from the headlines.

First came the announcement that Dolly Parton, the much-loved singer, songwriter, and philanthropist had died. Then came the tragic news that a flash flood had killed hundreds, if not thousands, in Nepal. And then, finally, we were informed how a 41-year-old had lost his life after a sign fell on him at what is billed as the UK’s largest Christian festival.

So what can we learn from all this? Well, nothing, perhaps, that we didn’t know already. That death comes to us all – and often unexpectedly – to the rich and famous every bit as much as the largely unknown multitudes, and to those who profess Christian faith as surely as those who don’t.

And whilst Dolly Parton’s death might be easier to accept, coming as it did at the end of a long life well lived, all deaths are equally heartbreaking. Let nobody think that the death of a believer is somehow more worthy of grief than the deaths of those in Nepal who, with their bodies still missing, have yet to be named.

But still the question arises. Why would a supposedly sovereign God of love allow so many to die so horribly?

It is, of course, a fair question – but before we are tempted to answer it, we would do well to humble ourselves before Almighty God and, recognising our own need of repentance, accept our own limited understanding.

Because if we do, we will guard against two erroneous claims that I have seen widely made on social media platforms – specifically with regard to the death at last weekend’s festival – a death which, whilst no more tragic than those in Nepal, is even more difficult to understand given how, as a Christian, he had put his trust in the God who appears now to have let him down.

The first has been made by some who have even seen fit to mock the death of a man who, irrespective of one’s beliefs, was both a husband and a father to those who now have to go on without him. The reason they give for the man’s death is that the God he believed in does not exist. But in truth it is only the God they think he believed in – and perhaps would like to believe in themselves – that doesn’t exist – one who guarantees that nothing bad will happen in this life but who, when it does, should bear full responsibility for it.

But that is not the God of the Bible – nor the God who really is there in all his often unfathomable magnificence. For he is one who, on occasions at least, has been shown to work through suffering and, what’s more, to bring unimaginable good out of what appeared unimaginable evil.

Which brings me to the second mistake I have seen being made by those who have evoked Satan as the one who caused the sign to fall on the man and imply, therefore, that the devil was able to act beyond God’s control, leaving God somehow powerless to prevent him.

But that is not the devil of the Bible – who is portrayed there as one who, whilst truly fearsome, is very much on a lease – able to do only what the Lord permits him to do according to his often inscrutable will.

So having said just a little about what the events of last week shouldn’t be taken to mean, how about hazarding a guess as to why they did happen.

But therein lies the problem – for it would have to be just that – a guess – and a pretty foolish one at that. And so I prefer to follow Job who, knowing more than most about what it is to suffer, never got an explanation for why he lost his family, his possessions and his health. Because whilst those who read the account of his great misfortune discover something of what lay behind it, Job himself had to be content with mystery. He suffered despite being blameless in the sight of the Lord he too believed in – and never discovered why. But he came to accept that God, being God, can be trusted – no matter how incomprehensible his actions might sometimes be.

For his ways really are higher than ours – and all the better for being so too!

Related blogs:

To read “Suffering- A Personal View”, click here

To read ‘Luther and the war in Ukraine’, click here

To read ‘When our joy will be complete’, click here

To read ‘When Bad Things Happen’, click here

To read ‘Weeping with those who weep’, click here

To read ‘Still weeping with those who weep’, click here

To read ‘All’s Well that Ends Well’, click here

To read ‘on the FALLEN and the FELLED’, click here

To read ‘What becomes of the broken hearted? Sorrowful yet always rejoicing on Palm Sunday’, click here

To read ‘Why do bad things happen to good people? Sorrowful yet always rejoicing on Good Friday’, click here

To read ‘Was it not necessary that the Christ should suffer these things? Rejoicing, though temporarily sorrowful, on Easter Day’, click here.

To read ‘T.S. Eliot, Jesus and the Paradox of the Christian Life’, click here

To read ‘Monsters’, click here

To read ‘On Sleeping like a Baby’, click here

To read “Hope comes from believing the promises of God”, click here

To read ‘Reflections on the death of Leonard Cohen’, click here