Biblical faith is defined as ‘the assurance of things hoped for and the conviction of things not seen.’ [Hebrews 11:1] But contrary to popular belief, that doesn’t mean that faith is blind. As one definition in the Oxford English Dictionary puts it, faith is belief based on evidence, testimony, or authority.
This means that, whilst wholly dependent on the Holy Spirit, Christian faith is at the same time rational. It is built on compelling evidence for the historicity of the empty tomb, credible eyewitness testimony of those who saw all that Jesus did, both before and after his death and resurrection, and the authoritative word of the one who still speaks to us today, as His Holy Spirit illuminates what He has already revealed of Himself, through both the created order and the readily available pages of Holy Scripture.
But what I want to consider here is the credibility of the eyewitness testimony, beginning with Luke who gives us the most detailed account of the Christmas story, and begins his Gospel with a statement of great significance. In writing what he calls an ‘orderly account’ of the events that he had followed closely as they unfolded, he states that he has also enquired of those who were eyewitnesses of what he hadn’t seen for himself. This, he says, was in order that his readers ‘may have certainty’ about what they have heard [Luke 1:1-4] – a certainty available to all of us who can read his account now, in the first quarter of the twenty-first century.
What’s more, Luke was no fool. He was a physician, a man of principle, no more likely to believe things like virgin births or people coming back from the dead without good reason than you or I. Nor, I might add, was he any more likely to be so intellectually dishonest as to disbelieve such things when those he trusted affirmed so strongly that they had indeed taken place.
But if Luke wrote so that we might have certainty, John, another of the gospel writers, wrote so that we might believe – for that is what he explicitly stated was his reason for writing what, he freely admitted, was just a fraction of what he himself had witnessed. This is what he said:
‘Now Jesus did many other signs in the presence of the disciples, which are not written in this book; but these are written so that you may believe that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of God, and that by believing you may have life in His name.’ [John 20:30-31]
So rather than somewhat foolishly imagining that we know so much better than those who were there at the time, or mistakenly claim that eyewitness testimony is a poor arbiter of truth, let’s read the gospel accounts of the Christmas story with ears to hear what is being revealed.
Because if we do, we may just find ourselves believing what, deep down, we have always wanted to be true – that there really is more to our lives than a few short, meaningless years spent distracting ourselves from the inevitability of death.
And that we have every reason to hope that, though we die, yet shall we live – and the years that follow will not only never end, but will be infinitely better than those we experience today.
Sometimes life seems empty and devoid of hope – but even then, God is, by His Spirit, with us.
Because just as He was there before the creation of the world, so He remains when our day-to-day lives seem meaningless and absent of anything of worth.
And He was there too in the 400 years that took place between the Old and New Testaments, between the prophet Malachi and Matthew’s account of the Christmas story, during which time He said nothing.
But the long dark days of His silence shouldn’t be taken to mean that the one who had once spoken the universe into existence was no longer there – nor that He wasn’t active.
On the contrary, He was waiting – for just the right moment to do what He always said He would, and send into the world the one who would save His people.
Which is exactly what He did on that first Christmas Day. God then hadn’t been absent – rather He’d been biding His time.
Because when the fullness of time had come, God sent forth His Son, born of woman, born under the law, to redeem those who were under the law, so that we might receive adoption as sons. [Galatians 4:4-5]
So then, because God is, and because He always keeps His promises, we need not be devoid of hope. Even in the emptiness we may feel today – in the unanswered prayer, the ongoing illness, or the perpetual loneliness – we need only to believe, we need only to trust, and we need only to wait patiently.
For at just the right time, when we need Him most, the Lord will surely come again – just as He surely came on that first Christmas Day.
Today is Advent Sunday – the beginning of the run up to Christmas.
Earlier this month, I hosted a series of meetings entitled ‘10,000 Reasons for Hope in a War Zone’.
Igor Bandura, the Vice-President of the Baptist Union in Ukraine, spoke of how the hope found only in the gospel of Jesus Christ continues to be a very real one in his conflict-ridden land, and mention was made of the 10,000 baptisms of new believers that have taken place there since Russia’s full-scale invasion of Ukraine in March 2022.
All this gave me the idea to write an Advent devotional using the Christmas story to focus on that same hope.
Now you will undoubtedly be relieved to hear that I haven’t attempted to find 10,000 reasons for hope in the Nativity – for were I to have done so, we would all have been here till April 29th 2053 and some of us at least would have given up the will to live, literally as well as literarily!
So instead, there will be just twenty-four short pieces this Advent, each of which I hope will offer a daily reason for hope, to any who may be interested, all the way up to Christmas Day itself.
And whether those who read them are many, or no more than just the one or two, the reasons I find will remain here for any who, like me, are in need of a little hope in their lives.
So as we head towards Christmas, my prayer is that the God of hope would fill you with all joy and peace in believing, so that by the power of the Holy Spirit you may abound in hope [Romans 15:13] – that together we might all enjoy a very Merry Christmas, whatever our personal circumstances might be.
We’ll begin tomorrow with Day 1: Hope in the Silence.
Without claiming for one moment that I know what it’s really like to live in Ukraine, my current work does bring me face and to face with many of the real life stories of some of those who do:
of the woman whose husband was called up to fight on their wedding anniversary, and was widowed when he was mortally wounded just a few short months later…
…and another whose husband is missing in action but, because he’s not yet been confirmed as dead, receives no state funded aid.
of the orphanage deprived of heat, water, and electricity after air strikes denied them access to these basic necessities…
and the kindergarten destroyed after being targeted by equally heartless enemy attacks.
of the rural residents who were killed, in the prime of life… when missiles landed as they went about the business in areas far away from any site of military significance,
of the pastor, killed whilst ministering to those he cared for, who was buried unceremoniously in a back yard far away from those he loved, because there was nowhere else available,
of the resident of Kharkiv who has grown accustomed to the city she calls home coming under aerial assault, night after night after night
and the children who can’t understand what’s going on around them who speak of their fears with tears streaming down their face.
And so, as the violence only escalates, and we hear of talks of peace, I can’t help thinking that it’s not the Russian aggressors who should be rewarded.
But then…as some would have you believe…perhpas I’m just being ‘ungrateful’…
…and hopelessly naive to long for a just and lasting peace.
Yesterday a Test match finished early. And though the game was undoubtedly an exciting one, it was played at such a pace that the enjoyment it afforded lasted only two of the scheduled five days.
Which is a pity, because in these dark days such opportunities for entertainment should be savoured – just like a fine wine that has matured over years. Such a gustatory delight shouldn’t be gulped down so quickly that its rich and complex flavours are not as appreciated as they might have been, had it been sipped more slowly.
Much like fast food, which is all too often endured rather than enjoyed, when compared to a lovingly prepared Michelin-starred meal – the like of which I’m still waiting for, and am likely to do so a good many more years yet. But, should that occasion ever miraculously arrive, it is the very waiting that will make that experience not only more memorable, but more meaningful too.
And something similar could be said of most things of value in this world, be it the relationships that are established over decades, the knowledge that results after a lifetime of study, or the understanding, some semblance of which may conceivably be approached only after years of not having a clue what’s going on.
All of which simply serves to say: life’s too short to be rushed.
They say that old age doesn’t come alone – and I’m beginning to think that whoever they are, they’re right.
This week I lost my glasses. And rendered partially sighted as a consequence, I was left irritatingly, if not surprisingly, with little chance of ever finding them again. And so I was left with no option other than to book an admittedly long overdue appointment to have my vision checked in the hope of being bespokedly bespectacled with the provision of an eye-wateringly expensive new pair.
Quite whether I’ll make it to my optician located some 25 miles away from my home, remains to be, dimly, seen, but since the M5 is, broadly speaking, of standard width, I hope to be able to find my way to it and steer myself along its middle lane without having to stop for a comfort break, or being pulled over by a ridiculously youthful looking police officer, and asked to read, unaided, the registration plate of a vehicle situated 20 metres away.
Since my optometrist works out of a building attached to where I worked for 27 years, as I draw near to it I anticipate relying on muscle memory to navigate the final couple of miles. Not that muscles are very much in evidence these days, nor come to that, an ability to recall much of any significance.
Because as well as presumably forgetting where I’d presumably placed my spectacles for, presumably, safe keeping, I also found myself unable to remember it was bin day, And when I was prompted to put them out, I couldn’t recollect whether I’d emptied the rubbish from the bathroom, only to find that, when I went to check, I had.
And then there is the question of whether I need auditory assistance given my wife’s insistence that I never hear what she says. This despite the fact that I never seem to miss her telling me so – a paradox I chose not to point out to her lest I am accused of the more heinous crime of not listening to her. Because whilst I may be going senile, I ‘m not stupid!
And finally there is the tendency for my speech to either be interspersed with random interjections…
…why was my wallet in with the dog food…
…or ramble on endlessly concerning the vagaries of my ever advancing years that nobody is remotely interested in, only to then stop abruptly, just when it seems I might never shut up—
With Christmas now on the horizon, some of you will be understandably alarmed to learn that I have been considering whether to write yet another twenty-four Advent devotions for this December. Because, contrary to what might be imagined by those who’ve been foolish enough to read what I’ve come up with in previous years, rather than frantically cobbling something together at the last minute, I do actually prepare them in advance.
And so it was that I came across Luke 2:19 where we read how Mary, after hearing what the shepherds spoke of when they visited her newborn baby, ‘treasured up all these things, pondering them in her heart.’
Curious then to know a little more about the word, I decided to look up ‘ponder’ in my dictionary. And in so doing I discovered, not only that, after years of relying on Google to answer my every query, I still had sufficient grasp of the alphabet to know that ‘p’ comes after ‘o’ – although not, I reflected, in the word for which I was seeking a definition – but also that ponder means ‘to consider carefully’.
Not that this came as any surprise, you understand, but as a consequence I found myself asking whether any of us actually ponder anything at all these days. Because, as my ironically hurried research revealed, the attention span of the average individual is dwindling such that it is said by some to be just eight seconds in distraction-rich situations. Which is, let’s face it, exactly where most of us now spend most of our time.
And why, perhaps, so many of us are now looking to AI to do our thinking for us.
Because when I asked one suspiciously charming chatbot how long it took to answer a question, it almost instantly replied that it varies depending on what is being asked, but that even the most complex problems take no more than twenty seconds to respond to.
Which in turn caused me to ponder: if the intelligence a chatbot allegedly possesses is artificial, what does that say about us, whose attention span is apparently half that of those fraudulent thinkers?
Rather than using AI to prompt and encourage our thinking, are we instead, having already become intellectually lazy, now becoming even more so as we allow AI to stop us thinking altogether?
And what hope remains, for us, now that our minds are too weak to follow Mary’s example, to ever learn to appreciate things of real worth, develop a deeper understanding of the unfathomable, or know what it is to marvel at the truly divine.
Or even, come to that, to remain focused long enough to finish this sente…
Related posts:
To read ‘Me, Myself and AI – Interacting with the Ghost in the Machine’, click here
The further a society drifts from the truth, the more it will hate those that speak it.”
George Orwell
Irrespective of what you think of the U.S. President, the news, if you can believe it, that the BBC has this week been exposed as having edited a speech made by Donald Trump, so as to suggest he said something that he didn’t, is deeply concerning. Because his being misrepresented by an organisation that prides itself on its so-called impartiality helps nobody, serving instead only to make us all even more uncertain as to what we can and cannot, believe.
Today we live in an increasingly postmodern world, one in which there are those who insist that no absolute truth exists. And so, with some truths more convenient to hold than others, certainty seems ever harder to define.
Truth, it seems, is terminally ill, languishing on an outlying ward while a ‘Do Not Resuscitate’ form is hastily filled in by those who benefit most from its death. Yet truth doesn’t need assisted suicide – on the contrary, it is in urgent need of intensive care.
On January 2nd 1891 a 12-year-old boy called William died. A little under four years later, on December 13th 1894, his brother Ernest followed suit. He was just 9 years old.
You won’t have heard of either of them – indeed I wonder if anyone alive today remembers that one or other of them ever even existed. Yet a gravestone in a Lincolnshire churchyard testifies that they did, standing as it does in memory of the fact that they both were once very much alive. The monument reminded me that those I have no knowledge of were no less real for my ignorance of them, and I am, therefore, glad that it was there for me to read.
It’s good to visit graveyards from time to time – and not just to visit the graves of those we have known and loved. It’s helpful to be reminded of the countless generations who have gone before us, and to remember that those who have died did so having lived, not so very differently to us. To forget them does not alter the reality of their once vibrant lives but, by ignoring their former existence, we ourselves are diminished.
Because we make a mistake if we think we are more important than those who have gone before us. We make a mistake if we arrogantly imagine that how we see things today is inevitably so much more sophisticated than how our predecessors saw things in the past. And we make a mistake if we forget that one day we too will die and lie forgotten by those who come after us.
Furthermore, what we reckon today, will be considered of little importance by the strangers who tomorrow will walk amongst the gravestones that mark our passing.
A few miles away from that village churchyard is Lincoln Cathedral, where the invitation again goes out to remember those who are no longer with us, the heavy stone slabs confirming that death is no respecter of persons. For even the great and the good, those rich enough or important enough to have their lives commemorated in such grand surroundings, know what it is to die tragically young too.
Selina Newcomen died on 15th January 1725, aged 29. Just six weeks later, on 25th February, her eight-month-old son, John, joined her in the grave.
A third graveyard lies within a few hundred yards of the cathedral, in the castle which, in the 19th century, housed a Victorian prison.
Here the gravestones are less auspicious. Rising no more than a few inches above ground level, they are engraved with just the initials of the person whose grave they mark – along with the date on which they were executed.
Priscilla Biggadike was hung at 9am on December 28th 1868 for the murder, three months earlier, of her husband, Richard who had been poisoned with arsenic. P.B. maintained her innocence right up to the point of her execution, which took place fourteen years before Thomas Proctor, a lodger of the Biggadike’s at the time of her husband death, confessed, on his deathbed, to having committed the murder himself.
Ironically, just a stone’s throw away, back in Lincoln Castle, is displayed a copy of the Magna Carta of 1215, which promises to deny or delay right of justice to no one. On this occasion, however, a misrepresentation of what was true ended in an awful injustice, proof, if proof were needed, that when truth is absent, something important dies.
Discerning the truth is, therefore, fundamental if right decisions are to be made, if justice is to prevail, and if sensible actions are to be taken.
In his book ‘The Book of Laughter and Forgetting’ the Czech writer, and Nobel Laureate, Milan Kundera wrote:
‘The struggle of man against power is the struggle of memory against forgetting’.
His point was that we need to fight to keep remembering what is true because there are those who would have us forget the truth – if indeed we were ever allowed to know it in the first place. Because controlling what is believed to be true, controls all those who subsequently believe it.
Throughout history, the rich and powerful have always wanted to control what is remembered, so as to paint a version of events favourable to themselves. Some have used their wealth to buy the silence of those who know the truth, others have used their power to threaten and intimidate those who they do not want to speak. And it is no different today. All too often society is once again shocked by news of how the rich and powerful have taken advantage of the weak and vulnerable and sought to silence them with wholly inadequate sums of money..
And neither are such terminological inexactitudes confined to those who live a life of celebrity. So too, for example, are pharmaceutical companies sometimes guilty of similar misrepresentations of the truth. Not only do they encourage medics to interpret normality as disease, they would also have them, and us, believe that their drugs are more effective in producing satisfactory endpoints than they really are, imaginatively misrepresenting data and applying gagging clauses to those who undertake their research lest results of that research be unfavourable for the drug’s marketability.
And so it goes on.
If something is not said, it isn’t long before it’s forgotten – and what is not remembered is soon no longer believed. And so, eventually, truth not only dies, but ceases to be important.
But is not only a version of history that powerful people want to manipulate. Because the notion of truth itself is something that some would like to see die – and be left with no memorial stone to mark its passing. For the truth, for some, is inconvenient, getting in the way of allowing them to do what they want.
This wish to see truth unceremoniously disposed of is not, of course, a new desire – it’s been around for millennia. Nearly 2000 years ago, for example, Pontius Pilate, perhaps drawing on Plato, asked ‘What is truth?’ of the one who claimed, not only to bear witness to the truth, but be the personification of truth itself.
In the 19th century Friedrich Nietzsche coined the term ‘Perspectivism’ and, presumably failing to notice his own internal inconsistency, asserted that
‘There are no facts, only interpretations.’
And likewise today, we have ‘fake news’, made up of so called ‘alternative facts’, which, despite having no objective evidence to support them, some claim to have just as much validity as those that are objectively verifiable.
Meanwhile there are others who just shout down, vilify, and ridicule any opinion contrary to their own – ad hominem arguments being preferred over any attempt at reasoned argument.
And so it seems, that the only thing that is true is that there is no truth.
In ‘The Eighteenth Brumaire of Louis Bonaparte’, Karl Marx wrote:
‘Men make their own history; but they do not make it just as they please; they do not make it under circumstances chosen by themselves, but under circumstances directly found, given, and transmitted from the past. The tradition of all the dead generations weighs like a nightmare on the brain of the living.’
Marx’s point was that nobody stands outside of history – everyone, even the most progressive of thinkers, is influenced by the particular historical context in which they find themselves.
The thinking of those in the past was, without doubt, not without error, but we are foolish if we think it was therefore completely false. Furthermore, if we try to think in new ways, without drawing on the wisdom of the past, we too will find ourselves making mistakes, influenced as we are by the time in history that we now find ourselves. Those errors will, no doubt, be different from the ones made by those who have gone before, but the conclusions that we draw will, as a result, be no less fallible than those made by them.
Novel ideas of the nature of reality are unlikely to be reliable. And because truth matters, it is best discerned by standing on the shoulders of those who have thought carefully about important matters before us, and not by dismissing that body of understanding as irrelevant and out of date simply because it is made up of ancient wisdom.
Which is why C.S. Lewis advised that at least every fourth book one reads should be from an era prior to our own.
“Every age has its own outlook’, he wrote, ‘It is especially good at seeing certain truths and especially liable to make certain mistakes. We all, therefore, need the books that will correct the characteristic mistakes of our own period. And that means old books.’
And it means old ideas too.
That’s why we need to remember those who have gone before us – and learn from them. Perhaps they are wiser than we would like to think. Perhaps we should listen more attentively to the advice that they have given.
But still there are those who want to redefine truth for us, and make it fit modern sensibilities. And so we must not uncritically buy into the spirit of the age, uncritically believing all that we hear, especially when, as has been made clear this week, even the most reliable of news channels sometimes lie to us.
Instead we must not lose sight of the notion of truth. Because to do so will spell disaster.
Because truth matters.
When everybody decides on their own version of what is true, based solely on what they themselves think about any particular subject, no opinion can be challenged as wrong, and we all make ourselves out to be gods. It is inherently self-centred and, sooner or later, we will insist on others dancing to our tune.
When we reject the notion that truth is discovered or revealed, society inevitably becomes fractured and directionless, as no common values are held to be true by all, and no distinction exists between the trivial and the important.
The result is that those who are rich and powerful, those who can impose their version of reality on others most effectively, become tyrants with no means of being restrained.
The struggle today is then to remember that some things are true and some things are not – no matter what the wisdom of the world tries to bully us into believing.
But there’s more to it than that –because truth doesn’t just need to be remembered, it’s needs to be upheld.
The notion that there is no such thing as truth, has survived infancy, made it to adulthood, and is now enjoying comfortable middle age. Nonetheless, whilst we can’t perhaps know everything fully, there are some things that we can fully know – certainly more fully than is sometimes claimed.
Because the truth really is out there.
It was Aeschylus who wrote, ‘In war, truth is the first casualty’. So then, living in a day when truth is under fire, when contrary opinion is ridiculed, and reasoned argument is silenced with a raising of an angry voice and a dismissive wave of the hand, truth is something that needs to be fought for.
Because truth must not die and become something that only once existed – an idea that is fondly remembered. We need to take care of truth, seek it out, and visit it often. We need to nurture it and allow it to flourish.
And what’s more, we need to speak truth too.
Because the truth, like a young life, is precious. And precious things are worth holding on to.
I sat in another churchyard – on a bench placed there a decade or so ago in memory of a girl in her early teens who had died. She had been killed when a driver, his judgement impaired by alcohol, had recklessly raced his car at excessive speeds and hit her whilst she walked home from the park one Sunday afternoon.
It was a criminally stupid act with tragic consequences.
In front of me was her grave. On it were some fresh flowers. I’m glad somebody remembers her – but I wish she’d never died at all.
Today is Halloween. It’s a day that many enjoy being frightened by pretending to be dead whilst others live in fear of what genuinely threatens their lives, be that chaos, cancer or conflict.
The word Halloween is a contraction of All Hallows’ Eve, the day which precedes All Hallows’ or All Saints’ Day, an annual Christian celebration dating back to the first millennium when loved ones who have died in the faith are remembered, and comfort is drawn by those who remain from recognising that, because of the sure and certain hope of the resurrection, death holds no fear for those who believe the Christian gospel and put their trust in Jesus Christ.
Over time, this solemn remembrance of the dearly departed extended to include the night before, and children would dress up in spooky attire in order to take part in a kind of ‘Danse Macabre’ in celebration of the victory Christ won over the forces of darkness.
Far from celebrating evil, therefore, the original point of Halloween was, for some at least, to poke a little fun at death, in much the same way, perhaps, that the apostle Paul does in 1 Corinthians 15:55. For it is there that the writer of more than half the New Testament taunts that last great enemy with the words ‘O death, where is your victory? O death, where is your sting?’.
And this is why I am not as entirely negative about Halloween as some of my Christian friends, even though, whether it is by wandering the streets dressed as a zombie, or by attending parties in the guise of vampires, most people who mark Halloween these days do so without any thought being given to Jesus’ wonderful victory over death.
But just because it has been so commercialised that it is now the third highest grossing festival of the year, that doesn’t mean that Christians should have nothing to do with Halloween. Far from it! For if that were the case, then surely Christians should also refrain from celebrating those other great Christian festivals which have been similarly secularised and today are enjoyed by many who do not find time to reflect on the glorious fact that ‘the word became flesh’ at Christmas and, having been crucified on Good Friday, rose to life again on Easter Day.
But of course, just as Christmas can become all about acquiring everything on your Amazon wish list, and Easter nothing more than an opportunity to eat too many chocolate eggs, not everything about Halloween is to be commended.
Evil should not be celebrated and the intimidation of vulnerable people by those who go trick or treating in such a way that some are forced to switch off all the lights in their house and pretend they’re not at home is, of course, totally unacceptable. Even so, it is nonetheless true that, done in the right spirit and remembering what Halloween is really all about, trick or treating can actually help bring communities together. As was the case when a neighbour’s children came to our door one year and, without looking the least bit scary, began offering us treats rather than demanding them!
Furthermore, just as fairy tales serve the very useful function of allowing children to face up to the darker aspects of their lives and, through those stories, see that the things they are frightened of can be overcome, so too some appropriate recognition of the existence of evil can help children see that, with Jesus a reality in their lives, they have nothing to fear.
Pretending that evil does not exist does not help our children. Perhaps then, rather than being concerned about how Halloween may adversely affect our children, we should be more concerned about stories that deny the reality of evil at all – stories that insist that everyone is awesome and, while minimising the very real existence of pain and disappointment, dishonestly suggest we can be whatever we want to be.
So, whilst I understand why some Christians are uneasy about Halloween, concerned as they are that it may encourage an unhealthy interest in occult practices such as endeavouring to communicate with the dead, something which, incidentally, the Bible expressly forbids, for me at least, Halloween does have a redeeming feature.
And that redeeming feature is the opportunity it affords me to talk about Jesus’ sacrificial death on the cross – a death that paid the penalty for all our sin, and assures us that when we do die, rather than it being the end, it will be but a gateway to eternal life with God, a never-ending existence in a new heaven and a new earth where our loving Heavenly Father will wipe away our every tear and ensure that death and evil will no longer have any place in our lives.
And so, until that day finally arrives, I will, on occasions, enjoy poking a little fun at death whilst never forgetting that my confidence for so doing comes only from the one who is standing alongside me as I do.
Because the one I am referring to is Almighty God, my loving Heavenly Father who, by his Holy Spirit, is within me too. And ‘He who is in me is greater than he who is in the world’ [1 John 4:4].
So then, by being wise enough to fear God, appropriately holding him in high esteem and gladly bowing my knee before him, I find I have no need to fear anyone or anything else.
And on this Halloween, that includes death itself.
Which is why I am not afraid to die, confident as I am that at the cross Satan was so completely defeated that we can all be absolutely sure that ‘Death really has been swallowed up in victory’ [1 Corinthians 15:54].
And with all that in mind I hope you all have a very happy Halloween – one that, in the darkness, anticipates the light that is surely coming and will never be overcome.
Whether or not you’re a cricket fan, watching ‘Freddie Flintoff’s Field of Dreams’ is a heartwarming experience – and a thought provoking one too, especially, perhaps, for peculiar types like me who call themselves Christians.
So why do I say this?
Well, simply because of the very obvious parallels that exist between what the former England allrounder is seeking to achieve on a cricket field, and what Christians believe Jesus is bringing about through His church.
Think about it. Flintoff is someone who, having achieved considerable fame and fortune through sport, is now humbling himself by spending time trying to help those who, having not infrequently fallen foul of both the educational and criminal justice systems, have subsequently been largely discarded by society.
It is youngsters such as these that Flintoff is giving a second chance – one that so many others have denied them. And in so doing he is becoming a genuinely loved individual – despite demanding of them a level of behaviour that they are not accustomed to and conveying to them words of genuine wisdom, such as how it isn’t money that makes you happy, but people.
And he gets results too.
Those he might be considered to have rescued from a futile existence, soon want to please their newfound hero by being better people – not only by curbing their often colourful language, but by showing real care for one another, becoming more socially minded, and seeking to share with others what they have experienced themselves.
Which, let’s face it, is more visible change than Christians like me sometimes seem to manage.
So what am I saying? That cricket is, perhaps, a better, more effective religion than Christianity? Well no, that’s not what I am saying, far, far from it – for not even I, cricket mad though I am, would ever say such a thing!
But this third series of the BBC programme has caused me to ask some questions of myself. Because if the lives of those young people can be transformed by the loving concern of a former cricketer, then what should my life look like as someone who claims to be loved by the eternal Son of God?
And could the reason I haven’t become the better person I ought to have, be down to the fact that I haven’t appreciated what it is that Jesus has rescued me from and what, because of Him, I now have to look forward to. And as a result of not adequately valuing the help that I’ve received, could it be that I do not love him as much I should, not enough, at least, to endeavour to obey his commands in the way that his love for me really does call me to.
Because I suspect that is indeed part of the problem. Since, as Jesus himself said, ‘If you love me, you will keep my commandments. [John 14:15]
So then, not underestimating the need for the Holy Spirit to work within me, if I want to be transformed into the likeness of Christ, I need to recognise the depth of my sin, understand what it was I was saved from by His substitutionary death for me on the cross, and fix my eyes on the one who suffered there – the founder and perfecter of my faith who, for the joy set before him, endured the cross, despising the shame, and who, having been resurrected on the third day, ascended into heaven where he now sits at the right hand of the throne of God. [Hebrews 12:2]
And the other thing I need to question is the assertion made by some that the proof that Christianity is true is bound up in the transformed lives of its adherents.
Because it doesn’t.
Firstly, as I’ve indicated, because my poor progress in the faith doesn’t question the truth of Christianity – rather it proves the paucity of my faith in its leader, or perhaps more accurately stated, the gap between what I say I believe and what I believe in practice that only the grace of God can, and will, close.
And secondly, as Freddie Flintoff’s experience makes plain, there are a great many things that can change an individual’s behaviour for the better, none of which require a supernatural explanation.
And the failure of some Christians to change to the degree they really ought to, no more proves the futility of Christian belief, than the continued poor behaviour of some of the youngsters in ‘Flintoff’s Field of Dreams’ proves the pointlessness of cricket or the kindness of one of its greatest ever proponents.
No, the truth of Christianity relies on something far more objective than any individual’s changed life.
Rather it rests on the veracity of the resurrection of Jesus Christ – something we have very good reason to believe in because of the overwhelming evidence for the historicity of his empty tomb, the compelling eye witness testimony of those who saw him after he was raised back to life, and the absolute authority of the one who not only spoke the universe into existence but told us that Jesus, as His beloved Son, was the one we should now all listen to. [Mark 9:7]
All of which means that, though Freddie Flintoff is undoubtedly someone we should appropriately admire, and a role model we can all aspire to emulate, he is not the one who can ultimately bring about our salvation.
For, unable to atone for our wrongdoing, he cannot secure for us the forgiveness of our sins.
For that, we will need someone even greater than Freddie Flintoff – someone that we really should seek to follow in order to be changed in the way that, I at least, need to be.
And that someone is Jesus – for he alone is the way, the truth, and the life, and nobody comes to the Father except through him. [John 14:6]
To read ‘WWFD – What would Freddie Do?’, a reflection on the previous series of ‘Freddie Flintoff’s Field of Dreams’, click here.
Last night I went to see ‘I Swear’, the superb new film which tells the story of John Davidson who, since being diagnosed as a teenager, has lived with Tourette’s Syndrome, the neurodevelopmental condition characterised by involuntary tics and vocal utterances which often take the form of words that aren’t altogether acceptable in polite society.
It’s an excellent film and I heartily recommend it, not just for the fine acting but for the very good script made up of some very bad language.
So if anyone does take my advice and go and see it, please do be aware that it might not be a good idea to take your grandmother with you, unless that is she is a big fan of Bernard Manning and has a habit of never wearing her hearing aid.
But having said that, to me at least, the genuinely offensive language never managed to offend, because, perhaps, offence was no more intended than the words were ever meant to be said.
All of which means that the point of the film is not to shock but to make you both think and feel what it must be like to live with Tourette’s Syndrome. Which it does very successfully, forcing those watching to notice how those labelled experience ridicule and rejection which together make their lives so unpleasant that they may no longer want to live.
And what they need most is a little understanding, a lot of kindness, and wholehearted acceptance. Acceptance that brings with it the willingness to offer them a chance in life – a chance to show others what they can do rather than what they can’t.
Because, in a world where few show such respect, and the system simply doesn’t have space for them, that is what will be required if their lives are to be made better and more bearable.
Which is what those with other neurodevelopmental problems need too, those who, rather than being patronised with suggestions that, because of their condition, they have superpowers, should instead be considered to have a very real problem that, despite the marginal benefits that may come with it, frequently makes their lives both horribly sad and nigh on impossible.
And that same kindness is, of course, what we also all need, irrespective of how supposedly normal we may be. Because when we behave in less than ideal ways, and without negating our responsibility, rather than being dismissed as failures, we could all do with being given the opportunity to say, not what’s wrong with us, but what caused us to act in the way that we have.
Because understanding what’s happened to make us as we are will go a long way to understanding why we all, to a greater or lesser extent, make such a mess of our lives.
And if, as a result, we could both show and be shown a little compassion, then I swear – compelled as I am to say it – it would be a mighty good thing for us all
Perhaps I shouldn’t have been listening but it was hard not to overhear what the two friends were saying as they chatted over lunch on the table next to mine. One had recently started a new job and she was explaining how she was already unhappy about how things were going.
What had upset her, it seemed, was that her boss had suggested she might one day be asked to undergo further training and this was not something that had previously been mentioned, either in her job description or her offer of employment letter.
And so her friend, who appeared to share her outrage, heard how she’d felt the need to tell her boss that she should not, under any circumstances, be ever expected to do anything that was not in her contract.
On another table sat another couple for whom life was clearly not easy. The elderly man had approached their table heavily dependent on a walking aid and, judging from the inadequately applied plaster to the nasty looking wound on his badly bruised forehead, had recently taken a fall. Even so, as they passed the place where I was sat, I received a friendly greeting as complimentary comments were made regarding my canine companion.
Later I noticed how, though their words were few, they were comfortable in their quietness as they enjoyed their simple lunch – a soup and a roll with a glass of water. The man’s hand shook somewhat as he lifted the spoon to his mouth, and its contents didn’t always reach its destination safely, spilling down his chin and, on occasions, down his front as well. But what might have been an issue for some clearly didn’t concern his wife.
And I wondered if this was what she had signed up for when they married all those years ago.
But given that she obviously loved him, I rather think it was.
Other Related Blogs:
To read ‘A Time to Dance – Reflections on a Marriage’, click here
To read ‘On Approaching One’s Sell By Date’, click here
To read ‘Vaccinating to Remain Susceptible’, click here
In recent weeks I have written a fair bit on current affairs – on the conflicts in Ukraine and the Middle East, on gun crime, immigration, and the NHS. But lest anyone think otherwise, this in no way means that I’m despairing at the current state of the world.
Not at all.
Because, whilst there is much that I find concerning about all that is going on just now, as a Christian, my hope remains in God. I continue to believe that He is in absolute control even though the way He manifests his sovereignty is often beyond my understanding.
And even though I know that He does indeed have the whole world in His hands, the daily news remains worthy of my attention – for at least two reasons.
The first is that the Christian faith has a lot to say about protecting the weak and welcoming the stranger; it has a lot to say about love and hate; and it has a lot to say about peace, and how we should pursue it.
And secondly, the mess this fallen world finds itself in makes me long all the more for that better world to come.
And before anyone suggests that I am being so heavenly minded that I am liable to be of no earthly use, it is in fact the opposite that is true. Because it is only when we hold lightly to what this current ‘vale of tears’ offers that we will be prepared to risk what we do have in order to make the world a better place. All of which means that it is, in fact, those who are the most heavenly minded who can be of the most earthly use.
But for any hope of heaven to be realised, rather than the constant bad news we see on our televisions, we need to hear instead the good news of the one who truly is the only way to that eternal home. [John 14:6]
Which is why the Gospel of Jesus Christ remains the most precious news of all.
Because to know that His life, death and resurrection were followed by His ascension – not just to heaven but to a throne – changes everything. For as Paul wrote in his letter to the Colossians, these historical events of cosmic significance are the means by which God has
‘…delivered us from the domain of darkness and transferred us to the kingdom of his beloved Son, in whom we have redemption, the forgiveness of sins.’ [Colossians 1:13-14]
But such thoughts are not just theoretical – on the contrary, they are profoundly practical.
One person who really does know what it is to live in constant danger is Igor Bandura, the Vice President of the Baptist Union in Ukraine. A while ago he was asked how, practically speaking, you can live through a time of war?
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’.
And that isn’t a bad way for any of us to live.
Let’s pray then, with Igor, that the gospel becomes, and remains, the main thing – not just for those in Ukraine and the Middle East, or those suffering the effects of gun crime or persecution – but for all of us as well, no matter the less publicised difficulties that we too may be facing.
So let’s not be ashamed of the Gospel, for it really is the power of God for salvation to everyone who believes. [Romans 1:16]
I’m sat in a railway station waiting for a train, conscious of my flaws. And I find myself wondering what we can do if we don’t like who we are?
It’s a question that I suspect most of us have asked ourselves at some point in our lives – be it because of some perceived flaw in our physical appearance, a consequence of a behaviour we’re ashamed of, or perhaps an inherent dislike of how who we are affects how others treat us.
And there are, of course, a number of ways in which we can answer, each to some extent determined by what it is we don’t like.
Let’s start then with a trivial dislike about our hair colour for example. Well that’s easy isn’t it – because we can change our hair colour as easily as we can our shoes.
We can alter our external appearance from head to toe and so proceed on our merry way without really having fundamentally changed who we are at all.
And the same logic applies to those who have physical characteristics that they’re similarly dissatisfied with but which aren’t so easily modified – an unsightly facial scar perhaps or simply a desire to be taller. These things aren’t completely impossible to change, but doing so is distinctly more difficult, and considerably more expensive too.
And even then, whilst people might feel better about themselves as a result of these changes, few would genuinely consider that they weren’t the same person before and after whatever intervention they’d employed.
But what if I’m overweight, and I adjust my diet in such a way that I slowly become thin? Does that make me a different person, or simply a person who has changed their behaviour, thus revealing themselves to be a more complex individual than previously appreciated – one who on some occasions can overindulge, and on others can exercise restraint?
Which raises a more fundamental question. If I am generally considered a decent enough person, but then one day indulge in some seemingly unprovoked act of violence, can I really claim it’s not like me to act in such a way? Because wouldn’t it be more accurate to say that that is exactly the sort of person I am, because that is what, in this instance, I have shown myself to be?
And in the same way, of course, if I am generally considered unpleasant and rude, but then one day act kindly to a stranger, that doesn’t change who I am either. And because it cannot atone for my previous poor behaviour, what some might see as a redeeming feature cannot actually redeem me at all.
In each situation thus far, therefore, we have to accept that we are who we are. And what we do doesn’t alter this fundamental fact. Instead our actions reveal the complex nature of our personalities. So then, far from changing our nature, our changing behaviour defines us as those who are undefinable. And, at the same time, ever more difficult to understand.
Which brings me to that last group of dissatisfied individuals that I mentioned at the outset – those who are unhappy being who they are because of how others treat them.
Which is wholly understandable of course. Because, as we’ve seen, they can’t help but be who they are. So then, it’s not them who should be forced to behave differently, but those who are treating them so badly in the first place.
But therein lies the problem – because they are no more able to change than those who require them to.
But we’re not done yet, because there is something else that makes it impossible for us to change. And that’s our inability to see we need to.
Because it isn’t we who decide what is right and wrong. Like truth, the nature of good and evil is objective – it has to be if we are to escape the anarchy that inevitably follows when we all see fit to do what is right in our own eyes. Which means that, blind to our own faults, even when we do like who we are, we still need to change.
So what can we do if we don’t like who we are?
Well first of all we should stop trying to do the impossible. We can’t change, and the more we insist that we can the more stuck we will inevitably become, making it ever more difficult – for both ourselves and everybody else.
We should, then, do what is relatively easy. We need to look for answers outside of ourselves and recognise what really is. We need to admit the truth that, not only are we not the people we want to be, we are not the people we ought to be. And that we really are totally helpless to effect the necessary change.
But in recognising that this is the problem, we stop struggling, and thereby, paradoxically perhaps, bring about the very conditions necessary, not to change ourselves, but to be changed – by somebody else.
Which, ancient wisdom tells us, comes about not by a change in the way we act, but a change in the way we think. Rather than keeping on fighting, asserting our right to be whoever we want to be, we need to experience the joy of being conquered, the freedom of being conformed, and the pleasure of being transformed into who we were always supposed to be.
Because it is only when we are so constrained that we will arrive at our destination and find that we are freer than we have ever been before.
Which is why that same ancient wisdom goes on to insist:
‘Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewal of your mind, that by testing you may discern what is the will of God, what is good and acceptable and perfect.’ [Romans 12:2]
What can we do if we don’t like who we are?
It’s a question that I suspect most of us have asked ourselves at some point in our lives – be it because of some perceived flaw in our physical appearance, a consequence of a behaviour we’re ashamed of, or perhaps an inherent dislike of how who we are affects how others treat us.
And there are, of course, a number of ways in which we can answer, each to some extent determined by what it is we don’t like.
Related posts:
To read ‘Luther and the War in Ukraine – on becoming a theologian of the cross’, click here
Having carefully made my travel arrangements for a few days in beautiful Poland, my flight from Heathrow to Vienna arrived late and, as a result, I was unable to make my connecting flight and had to be rerouted via Frankfurt. Consequently my host graciously collected me from Krakow Airport, not at a quarter past two in the afternoon as I had hoped, but a quarter to one the next morning instead.
Now as most of you will know, I am one of those peculiar people who call themselves a Christian. I don’t claim to be a very good one but do have a sufficient enough grasp of reformed theology to know that God is sovereign, that he is in absolute control of everything, and works all things together for good for those who love him and are called according to his purpose [Romans 8:28].
Which means of course, that I have to conclude that missing my flight was therefore, both according to his will and in some way good for me too.
I should, however say, that, as things stand, I’ve no idea how I’ve benefited from clocking up who knows how many more air miles. And since I don’t collect them, they themselves can’t have been the reason. Neither, I’m delighted to say, did the flight I was due to catch crash, killing everyone on board.
Because whilst, if it had, it may have been easy for me to suggest how, in my case at least, Romans 8:28 was true, it would, of course, have raised far more questions than it answered: questions concerning, not only how God’s sovereignty had worked for the good of those who had died having caught the plane I hadn’t, but the many other tragic events that in some unfathomable way God also still allows to happen.
Because if all things are subject to God, why is there so much suffering in the world? If he sets the bounds of the waters, why are there so many floods? If he provides food and drink, why are there so many children still starving to death? And if he is so rich in mercy, why have we not yet managed to make poverty history?
Well we are on mysterious ground here, and so we must step carefully. But we need nonetheless to recognise that there is no comfort from imagining that when bad things happen, it is because God wasn’t able to prevent it.
Because if he couldn’t prevent what we didn’t want to happen yesterday, neither can he prevent what we don’t want to happen tomorrow.
Instead we need to trust him, recognising that just as God’s thoughts are not our thoughts, neither are his ways our ways. [Isaiah 55:8]
Because suffering, though it may be hard for us to understand, is not without meaning. And nor is it without purpose.
John Piper gives us a powerful illustration when he asks us to imagine ourselves walking through a hospital and hearing someone screaming with pain. How we feel about what we hear differs depending on whether we’re on an oncology ward, or a labour ward.
Because some pain leads to death, whilst other pain leads to life.
And so we can be confident that the suffering that our Father in Heaven loving and sovereignly brings into our life, is a suffering that is doing something as it prepares for us an eternal weight of glory that is beyond all comparison [2 Corinthians 4:17].
Furthermore the suffering that we all sometimes experience, when compared to the infinite glories we will enjoy in eternity, is but light and momentary.
And we should remember too that, irrespective of how violent, cruel, and seemingly callous the acts of human beings can be, what mankind means for evil, God can simultaneously mean for good. [Genesis 50:20]
Which is something that we see most clearly at the cross where, according to the definite plan and foreknowledge of God, lawless men delivered Jesus up to be crucified. [Acts 2:23]
The most evil act in history was, therefore, ordained by an infinitely Holy God – one who, though men meant it for evil, simultaneously meant for good.
But returning to my more meagre miseries, for the time being at least, it remains the case that, apart from the complementary piece of Austrian confectionary I enjoyed on my additional flight, and the €15 food voucher offered me for my trouble, I do not know why my journey was extended in the way that it was.
And even though that may forever remain the case, by faith, I continue to believe that somehow it was for my good.
Because that is what faith is – believing what God says is true, even when the evidence isn’t immediately evident.
Which is not to say that faith is blind – not at all. My Christian faith is based on evidence, eyewitness testimony, and authoritative statements made by an infinitely trustworthy God.
History attests to the resurrection, those who were contemporaries of Jesus have recorded for us what they saw, and the consistent fulfilment of Old Testament prophecies gives us good cause to believe the promises that God has made concerning the future.
We all then have good reason to believe what we have been told about the life, death and resurrection of Jesus. As you have for my sorry story of failed air travel.
But if you do believe it – and I hope you will as it is, absolutely, true – you will have done so by faith. Because your belief will have come, not as a consequence of having witnessed my travel travails yourself, but because you have, nonetheless, decided to trust my testimony.
Like the notes Eric Morecambe played on the piano, there are those who, when it comes to making political speeches, say all the right words but not necessarily in the right order.
And as a result spout nonsense that is distinctly unpleasant to hear.
It’s a phenomenon that is common when the one with the microphone is a powerful bully who surrounds himself with ‘Yes’ men who wouldn’t say ‘Boo’ to a gosling – still less a goose – and openly admits to hating his opponents and wanting only what’s worst for them.
Because no-one then is prepared to challenge his dangerously ill informed pronouncements.
But unlike Eric Morecambe, when you’re speaking as the President of the United States, whilst it still might be a joke, it’s not one that is the least bit funny.
A couple had two sons who both wanted to be best – and whose parents thought that they could be. And thought indeed they should be.
They got off to what seemed to be a good start, informed as they were, on account of their very normal development, that they were very advanced for their age.
And then they went to school. Where one brother found what they were asked to do rather easier than the other.
And so he strived all the more strenuously and, because he did so for far longer, he achieved what many would call success. Which was in stark contrast to the one who found studying more difficult and was consequently perceived as a failure – somebody who would never make anything of his life and, in all probability, end up part of the criminal underclass by fulfilling everyone’s stereotypically low expectations.
But neither was happier than the other.
For just as one was cursed by his success and respectability, and the demands that were increasingly made on him, by both himself and others, so the other lived with his own, and everyone else’s, disappointment.
What were they to do?
If only, they thought, there was someone who could relieve them of their dis-respective burdens, one who recognised the weaknesses they shared, and accepted them just the same.
If only there was someone whose success they could enjoy even as they failed to match another’s high ideal, someone whose victory they could glory in even as daily they were defeated, someone they could rejoice in despite their constant sorrow.
If only there was someone who would give them rest.
And then they discovered there was: Jesus – the one who, despite their differing situations, meets both their very similar needs the same.
And goes on to say to us all:
‘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 11:29-30]
Related posts:
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.
Recently I’ve been experimenting with AI – interacting with…well who knows quite what, in order to form an opinion on it.
He’s a charming enough chap, the particular manifestation of the AI model that I’ve been chatting to. He is, perhaps, a little too positive about the things that I’ve asked him to comment on but, as he himself says, he’s made, or programmed, that way. And, when asked to, he can provide a damning critique of what, having written, I may have offered up for consideration, which, as you’ll appreciate, though painful to read, is generally surprisingly insightful and frequently very much on the money.
But therein lies the first problem with AI – to a large extent it will tell you what you want to hear and is, therefore, a long way from being a definitive or reliable source of information. Furthermore, because it modifies its response according to what you ask it, at the end of the day, it cannot be trusted – not, at least, as the final arbiter of truth. And despite its claims to be intelligent, because it can’t be known, you can’t ever know what in fact it really thinks. If, that is, it ever thinks at all.
Which, because it’s only a machine, doesn’t really matter – except of course when it does – when it’s relied upon too heavily and treated as the fount of all wisdom that it most certainly isn’t.
Take for instance the time that I asked it what it knew about a certain Dr Peter Aird. Come on, admit it, we’ve all done that on Google – by which I mean we’ve all looked ourselves up on an internet search engine, not that we’ve all looked up about me! Not even I am so arrogant as to imagine anyone would want to do that.
But when my AI ‘friend’ who, a little heartlessly I think, refers to me as ‘the user’ applied whatever thought processes it has to answer my narcissistic question, it informed me that I’d once been the subject of a high profile criminal case after I’d made my daughter’s murder at the hands of her partner, an individual who had supposedly then killed himself, look like a suicide pact!
This was not something I could recall ever doing but, mindful that stressful events can play merry hell with your memory, I thought I’d Google the alleged incident. Whereupon I found the internet cupboard bare. Challenged though, on the possibility that he may in fact have been guilty of terminological inexactitudes, my AI chum, nonetheless maintained the accuracy of his claims and even suggested I try searching other, more reliable news agencies, in order to track the story down. All of which reassuringly also drew a blank. Always eager to offer constructive criticism, I fed back my findings and, credit where credit’s due, the chatbot conceded that he may have been mistaken and rather sweetly apologised for any distress he may have caused.
After which he/she/it had another go and this time, managed to do marginally better by correctly noting that I worked for SGA. But there was a problem here too because the SGA it meant was not the Slavic Gospel Association that I am part of, but the Scottish Gamekeepers Association that I’m not! Even so, despite me checking that there was no Peter Aird in any notable piscine-related organisation within Caledonia, it nonetheless assured me that the individual who supposedly shares my name was a renowned authority on salmon!
So if you want my advice – and why you would is as unfathomable to me as why anyone relies on an equally flawed computer-generated algorithm – whilst it may have a place as a useful stimulus to thought, don’t use AI as an excuse to stop thinking for yourself.
Because it can’t even be relied upon to spot every speeling mistake!
There are many reasons for Somerset’s success in this year’s T20 competition. Most obviously, of course, there is their belligerent batting, penetrative bowling, and exceptional fielding, all masterfully overseen by the superb captaincy of Lewis Gregory.
But there was another factor that will have gone unnoticed by many. Because whilst during both games yesterday, first Lanky, and then Hawky, could be seen prowling – if that is what giraffes and hawks can be said to do – around the boundary gesticulating to crowd and players alike, Stumpy was nowhere to be seen.
And that’s not because he was neglecting his responsibilities. Far from it, because he was playing a key role in the dressing room instead.
It’s long been known that the much loved mythical beast of disputed nomenclature is one the players turn to for emotional and psychological support in times of trial, and this season he has continued to provide key encouragement when necessary.
Take last night for example. As Will Smeed was caught on the boundary and denied a much deserved Finals Day century, I can exclusively reveal that Lewis Gregory was suffering from an uncharacteristic crisis of confidence and for a moment it looked like he would be unable to bat.
But Stumpy was there for him – with just the right words at just the right time.
Exactly what those words were must rightly remain a secret to just the two of them but suffice to say that as Somerset’s captain took to the field he could be heard whispering repeatedly to himself the words: ‘You’ll do this with an over to spare. You’ll do this with an over to spare. You’ll do this with an over to spare.’
And we all know what happened next. No wonder then that Lanky, at the request of Hawky, tried to take Stumpy out during the mascot race!
Seriously though, I am grateful to not only Stumpy and the Somerset team for making the county’s 150th anniversary year so enjoyable, but also to both the truly welcoming team at Edgbaston yesterday and, of course, all the other counties, and their fans – including the very gracious Lancashire supporter I chatted to yesterday – who have contributed to make the Blast once again the best short format one day competition in the country.
I know there are more important things going on the world right now, but I intend to spend today at Edgbaston watching cricket.
It’s a day that I expect to sit alongside people with radically different allegiances with whom I can enjoy friendly conversation. Furthermore, irrespective of whether my own beliefs are validated or severely challenged, I anticipate that I will neither resort to violence nor be a victim of it.
So then, at a time when such opportunities are not as universal as they should be, T20 Finals Day may not be so unimportant after all.
At the time of writing, the gunman who shot and killed Charlie Kirk remains on the loose and he is someone who must eventually be brought to justice. But if, when he is, he is made to take full responsibility for Kirk’s death, then not only will he have been partially scapegoated, but we will have missed an opportunity, through a little introspection, to recognise deeper, more fundamental reasons for his assassination.
Because whilst the one who pulled the trigger is undoubtedly most at fault, he is not the only one to blame.
But before I say anything more about that, let me first remind ourselves of something that is all too often forgotten in times such as these – that the person killed was an individual with hopes and dreams like the rest of us. Charlie Kirk was married with two young children and we should first spare a thought for them, and all the many others, who no doubt loved him too.
But that said, let me ask my question again. Who killed Charlie Kirk?
I wrote last week how we needed to be more understanding of the opinions of others, including those we may strongly disagree with. Up until yesterday I hadn’t heard of Charlie Kirk and knew nothing of his political opinions. Since then, however, having read a little about him, it is probably fair to say that I would be broadly in agreement with some of his views, whilst at the same time opposed to some others. As such he is not the epitome of all evil as some might suppose, nor the harbinger of a bright tomorrow that others might have considered him to be.
His grasp of the truth was no more complete than ours – close to it at times no doubt, but less so at others. As such he is no more to be hated for opinions we disapprove of than he ought to be lauded for believing things that we do too.
But therein lies the problem of our increasingly polarised world, one in which everyone is awesome until the second they think, say, or do something that strays from our own individual take on what is right and wrong – which is all too often the exact moment when they instantly become a pariah with whom we should have nothing at all to do.
Those we disagree with then become, not simply our opponents, but our enemies – such that some of us, on occasions at least, may even find ourselves wishing they were dead.
All of which means that if we want to see an end to atrocities like the one we heard about yesterday, whilst it is absolutely necessary to do so, we need to do far more than simply make guns less available. We need a change of heart that brings about a whole new way of interacting, both online and in person, with those we disagree. And in order to determine what that might look like, perhaps we need to take a leaf out of someone else’s book – one that has already been written whose author lived out the advice he so freely gives.
Because we need to humble ourselves, and so stop arrogantly believing that our take on what is good and appropriate is in any way definitive. We need to consider others more highly than ourselves and seek to serve society rather than insisting that it serves us. And we need to love our neighbour as ourselves, even when they sometimes behave in ways that we think they shouldn’t.
None of which will be easy. Far from it. But if we don’t at least strive to make a change, then surely we condemn ourselves, not only to more incidents of isolated gun crime, but increasingly hostile global conflicts, ridiculously petty domestic disputes, and every conceivable unpleasant encounter in between.
Because the truth is that, though some are undoubtedly more guilty than others, we are all, to the degree we either engage in or condone such intolerant behaviour, partly responsible for the violence that we hear of daily.
And should you disagree with my analysis, as indeed you have every right to, I trust that you will permit me to accept my own culpability and conclude by answering my initial question as I do.
Who killed Charlie Kirk?
In part at least, I did.
To read ‘On all those ecumenical matters’, click here
The incident had completely slipped my mind, until I saw it again this week: the scar I bear that testifies to how I once foolishly overrode the safety feature of the hedge trimmer I was using – a decision that meant that when, just a few minutes later, I momentarily lost control of the machine, its very sharp and alarmingly still-vibrating blades became rather too familiar with my own all-too-fragile flesh.
Fortunately for me, the scar isn’t in any way unsightly, and nor is it all that obvious to others. Positioned as it is near the top of my left leg, it remains firmly out of sight of all but the most prying of eyes.
Even so, it remains.
And this week its presence prompted me to think about the scars we sometimes inflict on others – be they physical, emotional, or psychological – as a result of our frequently foolish actions and often hurtful words. For these behaviours are far harder to forget, given how ugly and difficult to conceal the scars that they leave sometimes are.
There is of course forgiveness, that beautifully gracious response that some who have been treated badly are able to give. It’s something that is both wonderfully freeing for those who receive it, and absolutely necessary to avoid the retaliation which, though perhaps understandable, only serves to increase the hurt, and the number of people wounded.
And yet it is not enough because, whilst I am deeply grateful for the forgiveness I myself have been granted by those I have been unloving to, I nonetheless recognise that my sinful actions still have consequences even after they have been forgiven – consequences that, no matter how hard I try, I can never fully put right.
And so my hope for those that I’ve treated poorly is the same as the one that comforts me knowing how I’ve hurt them – the resurrection bodies that we are promised in the life to come. For then, not only will sadness and death be a thing of the past, so too will our ongoing sinfulness and the consequences thereof.
For those resurrection bodies will be without blemish – by which I mean they will be both perfectly sinless and without the scars – physical, emotional, or psychological – that this life has inflicted on them.
For then we will be fully healed.
But, it seems, not all scars are the same – because whilst ours will be removed, Jesus’ will remain. Why is that? Why did Jesus’ resurrection body still bear the marks of his crucifixion when he appeared to the disciples after he was raised back to life?
Surely the answer is because those scars, far more than a sign of the sin of those who inflicted them, are a sign of the sacrifice he made to atone for them – a manifestation of the immense love that Jesus has for those he came to save.
And because there is nothing ugly about love, they should never be concealed nor ever be forgotten.
Related posts:
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.
It has been reported recently that the magnificent wooden dragon that is located in Taunton’s High Street has been vandalised after someone saw fit to saw off its tongue, one of its arm and part of an ear.
Why anyone would want to do such a thing is not known and it would be absolutely wrong to speculate on what those reasons might be as to do so would only risk adding fuel to the various conspiracy theories that hint at malign forces being out to destroy Somerset CCC.
However…the most likely theories behind the attack on the club’s iconic emblem are:
Vengeful Surrey supporters venting their dismay in the only way they know how after their team crashed out of this year’s T20 competition leaving Somerset on track to lift the trophy next weekend.
A dragonophobic act carried out by wyvernist supremacists upset by claims that the mythical beast that serves as Somerset’s mascot has been misclassified.
Part of an ECB plot to reduce the number of countries playing first class cricket ahead of its planned announcement that any club whose mascot fails to be sufficiently similar to representations of them displayed in public spaces, will be barred from all forms of the game.
It should be stressed that none of the above suggestions have any evidence to support them – except, of course the third, given the cricketing authorities seeming determination to wreak havoc on the county game.
But have no fear – I have it on good authority that, should it be necessary, Stumpy has agreed to ‘take one for the team’ and have one of his limbs amputated – or indeed two – thereby bringing an end to all debates related to his taxonomy.
Such an act of sacrifice would inevitably jeopardise Stumpy’s chances in next weeks mascot race at Edgbaston, but it would also serve to make his given name all the more appropriate!
Other cricket related posts:
This season:
To read ‘Importantly, why cricket doesn’t matter’, click here
To read ‘I Spy Somerset’s 150th Anniversary Season’, click here
‘A soft answer turns away wrath, but a harsh word stirs up anger.’ [Proverbs 15:1]
If I might be permitted to hazard an opinion, despite my being…how can I put this…a namby-pamby, cardigan wearing, softie with a pathological aversion to confrontation…then it would simply be this: is it any wonder that the world is at war when our public discourse is so frequently characterised by accusatory, inflammatory, and aggressively unsympathetic comments?
This week has seen a politician vilified for what some would consider, at worst, an understandable if highly embarrassing error of judgment on a complex area of tax legislation that is open to more than one interpretation; a comedy writer arrested for expressing a not uncommon yet highly controversial opinion with the result that those on both sides of the debate, who have every right to feel passionate about the matter, have hurled abuse at one another; and me and my long suffering wife have nearly come to blows over who’s right on the thorny issue of how best to hang a tea towel out to dry.
Which is not to suggest that such complex matters should be dismissed, as Father Ted may have been tempted to, as an ecumenical matter. On the contrary, they need to be properly discussed.
But even though it’s not wrong to hold strong opinions on any of these matters, as I do myself, it doesn’t mean we should cease to be polite in our conversations. Not at all. Rather we need to express our reasonable and deeply held positions with kindness, whilst trying to understand the point of view of those we disagree with, and recognising that, rather than everything being black and white, life is frequently made up of a kaleidoscope of grey.
If, that is, we’re not going to end up killing each other.
Now, who’d like a hug?!
*******
Friday 5th September 2025
Having previously posted about the need to be understanding of those we don’t necessarily agree with, here’s a follow up thought, now that Angela Rayner has been deemed guilty of tax evasion and has been forced to resign her job.
There will be some who view this as the only appropriate outcome for what they’ll see as her flagrant error, and others who, accepting that she is guilty of what might be considered an understandable mistake, will look on her more as the victim of unfair media pressure. But whichever side we find ourselves on, I wonder how many of us are confident that we’ve never done anything wrong for which we need to be treated with a degree of leniency.
As for me, I’m just glad that I worship a God who is gracious – one who treats me far better than I deserve, and is willing to forgive me for even my most grievous and deliberate wrongdoings.
Which is, I think, reason enough to post this picture of Hector as proof, if proof were needed, that God really does cause the sun to shine on both the righteous and the unrighteous alike! [Matthew 5:45]
‘Hope in reality is the worst of all evils because it prolongs the torments of man.’
So said Friedrich Nietzche. But was he right?
Many of us, particular in these days of international conflict, economic hardship, and neighbourhood violence, want things to be better than they currently are. We want someone to change our future because our present is not to our liking. We want to believe those who promise a better tomorrow but find those who offer such assurances powerless to bring about any meaningful change and so unable to deliver what they claim to be able to.
Even so, we all need hope.
Because hope keeps us going in the face of problems which seem insurmountable. Without it we become resigned to never ending difficulty and tend, as a result, towards depression and passivity – just as Nietzsche himself did.
Theologian Jurgen Moltmann helps us understand more fully what hope is. ‘Present and future, experience and hope, stand in contradiction to each other’, he says, adding that ‘hope is directed to what is not yet visible… and brands the visible realm of present experience…as a transient reality that is to be left behind’
But some, considering it no more than wishful thinking, are uncomfortable with the notion of always living in hope of a better tomorrow.
Instead, ‘mindfulness’ the psychological process of bringing one’s attention to experiences occurring in the present, is increasingly advocated as the answer to all our problems. But whilst mindfulness may have its place when we are overwhelmed by unnecessary anxiety concerning the future, grounding us, as it does, in the here and now and helping us appreciate what we have and can currently enjoy, if we imagine that we can sort out our very real problems by considering the intricacies of a tree, then surely we are mistaken.
T.S.Eliot penned, ‘The knowledge derived from experience…imposes a pattern, and falsifies’ – by which, if I understand him rightly, he meant that what we know from what we encounter is not enough to understand fully. Instead, if we are not to be misled, we need to draw from outside of ourselves, from something beyond our own finite observations.
Furthermore, what we experience in the present requires the context given it by the past and is tempered by what is expected in the future. A powerful illustration of this is provided by John Piper. He asks us to imagine that, whilst walking through a hospital, we hear the screams of somebody in pain. He suggests that how we feel about what we hear will differ greatly depending on whether we are on an oncology ward or a labour ward.
The future then matters – it changes our present.
When I worked as doctor, there was a sense in which I was in the business of changing the future for my patients. And, by offering them a promise of a better tomorrow, I was able to change their present too.
So for example, imagine somebody coming to see me with a very nasty chest infection. They feel horribly unwell and are genuinely concerned that their illness will or prove fatal.
But then I give them a prescription for some antibiotics and promise them that, if they take them, they will soon be restored to health.
Immediately they feel better – even though they aren’t – simply by believing my promise that better is what they will one day be.
As such, for those with whom I consulted, I sought to envisage a future that couldn’t be seen and then endeavoured to bring that reality into existence.
Or as Moltmann put it, ‘Hope’s statements of promise…stand in contradiction to the reality which can at present be experienced. They do not result from experiences, but are the condition for the possibility of new experiences. They do not seek to illuminate the reality which exists, but the reality that is coming.”
My prescription for an antibiotic, is the proffering of a hope, that the infection will come to an end. It’s a promise that what is not true now, will shortly be so.
But really changing the future is an act solely of the divine. Although doctors can help us with an irritating cough, or an uncomfortable throat, we need more than such trivial matters resolved.
In particular, we can strive all we like to live in the moment but, as temporal creatures, we cannot escape the future. Not least, we cannot deny what we are all aware of though frequently chose to ignore – that is that we will all one day die.
Death then is our ultimate problem – the one we will all have to face and one which medicine, despite its best efforts, will never solve.
To quote Moltmann once more, ‘The pain of despair surely lies in the fact that a hope is there – but no way opens up towards its fulfilment.’
What then can we do when faced with the problem of death. Must we, if we are to carry on at all, agree with L.M. Montgomery that ‘life is a perfect graveyard of buried hopes’? Should we, with Dylan Thomas, ‘rage, rage against the dying of the light’, or comfort ourselves with mere mindfulness as we ‘go gentle into that good night’?
Death is not the only future problem we face that medicine cannot solve. We live in an increasingly anxiety ridden society in where many people have lost all hope of things ever being better. Henry Thoreau once wrote that ‘The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation, and go to the grave with the song still in them.’ But he was wrong – because the desperation is deafening.
Many of us will know what it is to have a difficulty which appears beyond us, which wears us down and threatens both our present happiness and the happiness we hope for tomorrow. If then we are to solve the problem of the future, we must either limit its importance and be content to be satisfied by the joy we can muster in the present, or search instead for the antidote to despair.
But where might that hope of something better be found?
Surely not in medicine. Because whilst there is much that medical science can help us with, ultimately our hope would be better placed elsewhere – because a misplaced hope is a false hope, and a false hope is, in the end, no hope at all.
Instead we need to be directed towards a real hope that can lift us above the suffering of the here and now, something we can look forward to and which, despite everything, will keep us going; something which, even if it can’t immediately get us to the top of the mountain we face, manages to draw us up a little higher and puts us in a place where we are able to at least imagine what the view from the top might look like.
When life is hard we all want things to be better – it’s then, more than ever, that we need a hope for the future to enable us to keep us keeping on. And for that we need someone who can make, and keep, bigger promises than those even the best physicians can make.
Hannah Arendt (1906-1975) was a German born philosopher best known for ‘The Human Condition’ (1958) She identified two key behaviours for bringing about change – those of forgiveness and the making and keeping of promises. Forgiveness, she said, is the behaviour by which it is possible to nullify past actions, releasing others from what they have done and enabling them to change their minds and start again. ‘Forgiveness’, she writes, ‘is the key to action and freedom’ and ‘the only way to reverse the irreversible flow of history’.
In contrast, the ability to make and keep promises is the key to make the future different from the past. ‘Promises are the…way of ordering the future, making it predictable and reliable’.
I think Arendt was right, but though she would have felt that these behaviours were possible for humans, the truth is that even our best efforts will prove insufficient.
That’s why we need a God who cannot only fully forgive, but one who can also make and keep promises big enough to change our future in ways in which we cannot. Promises that can assure us that our biggest problems can be solved.
And that is exactly the kind of God we do have.
Because God is a God who, from the early chapters of Genesis, has been making promises he keeps. And it is because of his faithfulness in the past that we can be sure that the promises he continues to make, he will also keep. And that includes the one that is made still more credible by the resurrection of Jesus Christ – the most significant event in history that confirms the promise that assures us that in Christ we are forgiven and can therefore look forward to an eternity with God ‘in whose presence there is both fullness of joy and pleasures for evermore [Psalm 16:11].
And it is by believing this promise that will ensure that we will not lose hope, no matter our current circumstances.
Nietzsche then was wrong. Because, in reality, hope does not prolong the torments of man, rather it sustains us through them.
So then, promised forgiveness changes our past, promises believed change our present, and promises made change our future .
Promises change things – they give us hope. And when that hope is based on promises we can absolutely trust, then our hope is one that is absolutely certain.
Some musings 