2024 and 2025 - at the turn of the years

This post has been written on either side of the New Year.

Janus From Walltham Abbey

 There's a certain sense of frustration in being confined to a wheelchair as well as being physically cautious - a quality acquired after too many occasions lying on the floor after falls waiting for assistance. Fortunately we have great neighbours whom we have learned to call on, as the prescription, "Ring 999," usually entails long waits. The frustration is compounded by having the world mainly mediated through a screen or by radio. One doesn't need an algorithm to detect a certain uniformity of news narrative. I've observed that journalists often derive their news from other journalists' stories. As my father used to recite to us:"Great fleas have little fleas upon their backs to bite ’em, And little fleas have lesser fleas, and so ad infinitum." (De Morgan, from his book A Budget of Paradoxes, 1872).

Looking back at my year, I consider this to have been vividly exemplified in the treatment of Archbishop Justin Welby. On Monday I commented:

"On 29th December, the Church remembered Thomas Becket, Archbishop of Canterbury. In TSEliot's play, Thomas preaches his last sermon on Christmas Day 1170. '...it is fitting on Christ's birth day, to remember what is that Peace which He brought; and, dear children, I do not think that I shall ever preach to you again; and... it is possible that in short time you may have yet another martyr, and that one perhaps not the last.' Four days later he is murdered in his cathedral by four knights who thought they were carrying out their King's wish - mistakenly." That couldn't happen today, of course, could it? No. Today it would happen by social and mainstream media (plus petitions) seizing uncritically upon a convenient pretext to impugn a good man's integrity and oust him from office in, as the admirable Bishop Rose Hudson-Wilkin described it, "the lynch-mob effect".

Looking back over my blog I see I was also much preoccupied with the debate about assisted suicide - which eventually came to the much altered House of Commons (following Labour's landslide victory in the July General Election). In the event MPs voted in favour of the second reading of the Terminally Ill Adults (End of Life) Bill by a majority of 55. I concluded that it was one step on the road to a state-sponsored National Death Service. It remains to be seen how far its proponents will try to extend its boundaries.

2024 was trumpeted as the year of elections, and it was. Perhaps the largest in terms of population was in India where the party of the Prime Minister, Narendra Modi, lost its absolute majority. In the UK the Conservative Party which had been in power for 14 years was trounced having made itself almost terminally unpopular.

Entering Notre-Dame Cathedral

In France President Macron, despite a successful Olympics and a magnificently restored Notre-Dame Cathedral, in effect received a thumbs down when both the far left and the far right oustripped his centre party - and lastly came the big one: in the USA ex-President Trump won a whopping victory over his opponent, Kamala Harris, who was the Democrats' last minute stand in for President Biden, who had been deemed too elderly for another four years in office. If there is a trend in all these, it seems to be that incumbent governments had lost their voters' confidence.

Joanne Froggatt in 'Breathtaking' (ITV)

Highlights of 2024 for me were watching the Paris Olympics, celebrating a significant wedding anniversary with friends and family, and going to see Sheridan's The School for Scandal at the RSC in Stratford. We've usually hugely enjoyed their Shakespeare, but how would we like their Restoration comedy? As it happened, we loved it. Clever, colourful and great fun. On the small screen, along with half the country, I was gripped and appalled by Mr Bates vs the Post Office. Shocking that the post office masters and mistresses have still not received their due redress. I was disappointed that ITV's mini-series, Breathtaking, with its searing exposé of the treatment of healthworkers during Covid, has not received similar attention and that the cost and sacrifice of all the NHS staff who were at the front line of the battle on our behalf have not been recognised or compensated as they surely deserve. On a lighter note I've enjoyed Return to Paradise - an Australian daughter of the comedy Caribbean detective series Death in Paradise. It stars Anna Samson as Detective Inspector Mackenzie Clarke, who seems to be on the "spectrum" but, and probably because of that, is a brilliant if uncoventional detective. I'm glad to read that a second series is "under development".

Casting a long shadow over 2024 was the expanding conflict in Gaza and the even more protracted invasion of Ukraine by Vladimir Putin, plus civil wars in Sudan, Myanmar and doubtless other countries about which we never hear. Last year I wrote a poem on Holy Innocents' Day. 12 months later, I wrote another one on the same subject. I wonder whether I'll be doing the same in another 12 months.

Father pulling dead son after missile attack In Gaza - Channel 4

Searching the rubble after missile strike  - Democracy Now

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

The rabbi whose mother escaped death                                                 In the kinder transport comments,
‘We need to have compassion.’
His voice is full of sadness.
In only two months more than a year
Fourteen and a half thousand slain
And nearly a million homeless
Seeking refuge.

‘Children,’ he says, ‘should never be collateral damage.’
Yet here we are, ending December,
Gaza destroyed and the children
Crying from the blood-stained ruins
Of their once happy homes,
Hospitals raped of life-giving medicines,
Fatherless, homeless, no escape
From the invader’s insane juggernaut.

With privileged forewarning you escaped
To Egypt; while all the other mothers wept
Did you hear the wailing? Does your Son
Now hear? Or does he recline unmoved, no crying,
Away in a heavenly manger?
With the One who wailed, yes groaned at a grave,
Surely now together you both walk and weep
Among the desolated people whom he loves.

And where’s the old carpenter? Is he not
Unseen among the fathers and brothers
Where they heave the beams and throw aside
The smashed family treasures seeking loved ones
Crying cursing loudly their Herod of today
Who in his fury commanded this catastrophe?
No flight to Egypt now for them
The healer, builder, the mother are here.

As with your Son you walk unseen among the ruins
Surely now you tell him of the pain and the joy
Of carrying a child within you, and the protracted pangs
Of birth, and the agony, oh the agony as he dies,  
Surely you do not tell the mothers and fathers
Searching the rubble now that all will be well
That a joyful resurrection day will come
But with him and them you sit and weep. (Holy Innocents' Day 2024)

From Notre-Dame Cathedral, Paris

Like a beauty pageant contestant, I could wish for world peace in 2025. I suspect that is too big an ask, although it remains something I pray for because it's certainly proved to have been beyond the ingenuity of human politicians. I'm not sure whether the likes of Mr Elon Musk do anything to promote peace and justice (which of course go hand in hand). And so, beside removing myself from X which I have done in a vain gesture of protest, my wish for that rich overly ambitious South African is that he himself would take a ride on one of his rockets to Mars and stay there incommunicado. Another associated wish is that all the newly elected politicians, at least in this country, would prove themselves different from their predecessors and do better than their promises. As for the good old CofE, my wish is that a worthy successor to Justin Welby is appointed and that it should be a woman (from south of the city of Newcastle). 

Riccardo Muti's New Year message

Finally, the New Year's Day concert from Vienna was particularly good this year. The conductor was the 83 year-old Italian maestro, Riccardo Muti. The orchestra clearly like and respond to him. After the traditional orchestra wishing the audience a happy new year in unison, Muti's speech was short and to the point: "In my own Italian language on behalf of the Vienna Philharmonic I wish everyone three things: Peace, Brotherhood, and Love - in the whole world." To which a member of the orchestra responded, “Si!" And so do I.

An Olympic cautionary dose

When I was at school, we all knew that the most unjust type of sanction was collective punishment – you know the sort: when the whole class is kept in detention for one person’s misdemeanour. It’s the last resort of the ineffective teacher. “I know someone’s been smoking in here, and if they don’t own up in the next minute, I shall keep the whole class back after school until I get the name.”

I remember well the first time I was on the receiving end of this sort of sanction. I have no idea what the offence was. I was still in junior school and I remember the class being lined up at the top of the basement stairs, prior to being marched down to have the cane administered by the ex-army-captain headmaster. In fact, I’m ashamed to say, I was so scared I feigned sickness and avoided my fate and so was launched into a propensity to intelligent deceit. I did later get my fair share of rapped knuckles from Fido, the length of quadrant wielded by my moustachioed Maths teacher.

Graphic showing estimated civilian casualties in WW2, Memorial Civiles

When we were away on holiday in France this summer, we visited the moving Memorial des Civils museum in Falaise which records the civilian cost of World War 2. There was an exhibit there which listed something like 20 men from a village, taken to concentration camp, after German military trains had twice been blown up nearby by the resistance. One man came back. A pattern repeated thousands of time in war, no doubt. The museum reminded us that our Soviet allies lost 36 million civilians in the defeat of Nazism, far more than the rest of Europe put together. Which is, by the way, one reason why I consider our officially sponsored populist anti-Russian narrative so misconceived.

You may surmise from this that I rate collective punishment as a very low form of life. And I was sorry when the Olympic authorities, almost, and the Paralympic totally imposed a blanket ban on athletes from the Russian federation. It seemed to me a denial of natural justice. Whatever the rights and wrong of the McLaren report on state sponsored doping in Russia, it’s clear that some innocent athletes were barred from competing by the bans, and I suspect guilty ones from elsewhere competed, perhaps making intelligently deceitful use of TUEs (Therapeutic Use Exemptions).

Whatever the case, it seems that the whole affair was hurriedly and clumsily mismanaged – which of course worked to GB’s advantage. True, GB did wonderfully well in both Olympics and Paralympics in Rio, and their medal haul exceeded even the London Games. But then they would have won more, wouldn’t they, with their main competitor for second, third or fourth place removed from the picture? I wouldn’t want in any way to rain on their parades. They deserve our very great admiration, but let’s keep it in perspective and hope that by 2020 Russia will be back in the mix.

Whatever next?

In his blog, the BBC sports editor, David Bond, ends his summary of the London Olympics, headlined "How can Rio follow London?" with "After the last three weeks the question might now be: How can anyone hope to follow London?" Boris Johnson fell into the same mindset when he declared, "If you were to say to me that we have just held the greatest games ever in Britain, I would say you are on the right track." The implication seems to be that it's impossible to conceive of anything bigger and better than LOCOG's staging of the Olympics. Mr Bond needs to remember that the Olympic motto isn't "maius et melius" (bigger and better). As I suspect her Majesty would say, "Good evening, Mr Bond, may I remind you of the Olympic creed? 'The most important thing is not to win but to take part, just as the most important thing in life is not the triumph but the struggle. The essential thing is not to have conquered but to have fought well.'"

As I've intimated before, the arms race of putting on a more impressive show than the preceding one or ones is folly. I don't know how to say it in Brazilian Portuguese, but my suggestion for 2016 is Os Jogos Olympicos Simples, the Simple Olympics, with a touch of Carnival. I think they'll manage, somehow. Meanwhile let's stop making the Olympics out of the reach of all but the richest countries - of whom Brazil of course as a BRIC nation is now one. How about putting some sponsorship into countries that need it?

PS Am just watching the closing ceremony a few hours late - what a monument to decadence and cultural arrogance - up to the handover! A shame after a thoroughly positive festival of sport. I will say no more.

Olympic mottoes

I was a bit saddened to hear our leading politicians cashing in on Great Britain's relative medal success in the Olympics, and banging on about competitive sports in schools. Not that I think they're out of place there, but I do think that there's a danger of overemphasising winning. School football pitches are already marred with over-ambitious underachieving parents screaming on the touch-lines at their poor offspring. It is plain ugly

The Olympic motto is "Citius, Altius, Fortius", which is Latin for " Faster, Higher, Stronger". All right, I suppose, but I agree with my friend, Brotherly Love, who wrote: "My motto for the Olympics would be: 'Who does the best his circumstance allows, does well, acts nobly - Angels could do no more'. That was a favourite of my dear old Dad (b. 1875) who only ever asked that I would 'do my best'." Measuring yourself against yourself and not against others must ultimately make for happier and healthier people.

As the Marathon moved past St Paul's Cathedral, I learned about the origin of the Olympic Creed. It was from a sermon there for Olympic champions by Bishop Ethelbert Talbot of Pennsylvania in 1908 that the Olympic Creed derives. The Olympic Creed, still used to this day, reads: "The most important thing in the Olympic Games is not to win but to take part, just as the most important thing in life is not the triumph but the struggle. The essential thing is not to have conquered but to have fought well." I think Baron de Coubertin, the modern Games' founder, did better in selecting that than the motto.

I don't like to end on a sour note, but I was disappointed to hear a commentator in the euphoria after the achievement of former Somalian refugee in the 5000 metres saying something like "Mo Farah, before the end of the year you'll be known as Sir Mo Farah." That's something I bridle at, the automatic expectation of New Year's or Queen's Birthday honours for successful sportsmen. It was a practice Tony Blair introduced, with the wholesale gong-giving to the Ashes' winning team. It seems to me they've already had their reward. It's a somewhat cheap method of politicians currying electoral popularity. A friend of mine defended the practice on the grounds that sporting success makes the country "feel better". Well, a lot of people contribute to the nation's well-being - who are not paid handsomely for doing the thing they enjoy, and receive little recognition for it.

Medals don't matter

"Can there be anything better?" I asked in my previous post, referring to the Olympics. Having watched the Men's Hockey semi-finals last night - since it was the sport I was best at, which isn't saying much! - I guess the English team would definitely say, "Yes"! After their 9 - 2 drubbing by the Netherlands (No gloating, Otto!) their captain, Barry Middleton, was given the traditional once-over by the merciless BBC commentator. The worst possible outcome would be coming fourth. Fourth in the Olympics - it's not bad, is it, after all? And yet commentators seem to regard anything outside the medals as failure - which I suspect reflects the attitude of the UK's Head Coach, Charles de Commenee.

I prefer the attitude of my ex-pat Australian friend, Liz Jones. Australia of course has had a far leaner Games than Great Britain, and I suspect sporting success is dearer to the Ozzie psyche than to us. "After hearing a newsreader saying this morning, 'Finally some gold medals, now we can be proud,' I just had to make a comment, to even make it to the Olympics is HUGE - I am proud of all of them, medals or not - they have given their lives to reach where they are now.... Yes it's fantastic to win the gold - but don't bring down the inner spirt of all who have tried so hard. I will now get off my soap-box...." Well said, Liz.

from Daily Mail

This morning I'm sorry that the BBC has completed ignored the achievement of unassuming Kenyan, David Rudisha, achieving the sole world record of the Games, in the 800 metres, mentioning only Usain Bolt, the self-appointed "legend", and our own three gold medallists of yesterday. What was remarkable about the race was the way he seemed to pull all the other runners with him so that each achieved either national or personal best times. It was a beautiful race. I think of the running track at Chogoria High (Senior) School where I taught for a year before the days of Kipchoge Keino in which the lane lines were carved out with pangas and even in those days amazing high-altitude athletics took place. Then the school's motto was something like "Thiaga Nakio Mbere" - which means, in the local language, "Press on towards the mark". That's really more like the point. It's not to achieve metal gongs you have to leave behind. It's to persevere towards the goal, as St Paul expressed it: "I press toward the goal for the prize of the upward call of God in Christ Jesus." 

I've always appreciated the prayer of Ignatius of Loyola. It's a better perspective than regarding completing the race but not winning as failure: 
Dearest Lord, 
teach me to be generous;
teach me to serve You as You deserve;
to give and not to count the cost,
to fight and not to heed the wounds,
to toil and not to seek for rest,
to labour and not to ask for reward
save that of knowing I am doing Your Will.  
In the end we won't be asked if we came in first; we'll be asked if we persevered faithfully to the finishing line.

PS Sadly I'm too late to prevent Dutchman Otto's satisfaction. He has just written: "the NINE-TWO tasted wonderfully well"!

Could there be anything better?

It's exceeded all our expectations, I think it's fair to say - the first week of the Olympics, that's to say, for "Team GB", and it looks like continuing that way. I'm told we even top the athletics medals table for a time... Could there be anything better for our rather depressed nation?

We're just back from our annual visit to New Wine. That's not, as a friend once thought, a festival of tasting the latest Bordeaux vintage. It's in fact an association of churches and church-leaders who believe that the divine person of the Holy Spirit was neglected in the life of the Church - much to its detriment. Every year they hold annual conferences near Shepton Mallet and Newark in England, attended by about 30,000 people, plus more in other countries. A week ago on Sunday we had tea with one of my oldest school friends, Alan, and his wife, Jo. It's many years since I've seen them and Jane had never met them. Jo, as it turned out, had visited New Wine for one day the week before. In an email later she wrote:
"...Would love to know how you found it.
I'll follow what you write on your blog…"

With that challenge etched on my mind, this posting is dedicated to you, Jo! However, I'm going to try and explain how I found it for those of you who may be sceptical or "iffy" about the whole faith thing, and especially of what's been conveniently and quite inaccurately caricatured as "happy-clappy religion". So here goes.

First I have to say this is not the assessment of a brief in-out journalistic foray. I reckon we've been going for the last seven or eight years. For some years we went with members of our church and since retiring we've "freelanced". So I suppose you could say we've had some in-depth exposure. Secondly, although I try to see the best in people, I'm not an utter sucker. My critical faculties haven't retired. So I have seen some imperfections in some vintages - but this year, in my opinion, was an impressive one. Not that it started that way for either Jane or me. Maybe we were tired, but, if we were, we were more tired when we left. For me the visibility was poor and the music was too loud in the main venue. Fortunately there was an escape route in the form of the Olympics marquee which was streaming various channels most of the time - not that Great Britain got off to a good start either. In the mornings we opted for the second main venue where the music didn't seem so loud and cheerful Scottish pastor from Northern Ireland, called Scott, was talking about the book Ephesians, which might not sound that interesting, but proved to be extremely so. Alan Scott's theme, which echoed that of the book, was that the Church's rôle was to love the world as God does and in fact to take that love out to communities and society. There was no quarter for a cosy clique mentality. It was a call for social engagement at every level, starting with individuals. Although I concurred with the sentiments, I can't say I was stirred. 

By the Wednesday when we drove to Sidmouth to celebrate her father's 90th, both Jane and I were, as it transpired, separately feeling this would be our New Wine swan song. We stay in a delightful self-catering cottage within easy reach of the showground, but it's an early start and a late finish. On the site - it's where the Bath and West Agricultural Show takes place - Jane pushes me in my wheelchair over rough tracks, up awkward ramps, across grass and it's hard work. The previous week had enjoyed glorious sunshine; our week had quite a lot of rain - and so sometimes Jane was splashing through streams in her flip-flops. (It was fine for me, of course, six inches in the air!) We were, I think, both feeling our ages and not inspired enough to make the effort again. It would have taken either one of us to suggest staying in for the night to keep us from going in for the evening that day.... But, as Mr Scott memorably invited us to tell the person sitting next to us (only Jane, in my case - what a relief!), "Your but is too small." 

What happened that evening? Well, there were two of my favourite worship songs, "Amazing Grace (My chains are gone)"  and "Bless the Lord, O my soul (10,000 Reasons)", and certainly a challenging talk given by Charlotte Gambill from Bradford's Abundant Life Church. But Jane had a personal spiritual experience and I was prayed for, and from then on things were different. There had been a seismic "But". I think it's reasonable to believe it was a "But God" - and that's for two reasons: first, that we'd not gone with any expectations or even hopes. We'd not turned up wishing for some special revelation; in fact, I'd say it was rather the opposite, a bit disgruntled and a bit sceptical. I even stuck ear-plugs in to damp down the invasive music! And Jane had commented that she didn't want to be challenged that evening. We weren't exactly suggestible. Secondly, neither of us invited what we experienced. It came "out of the blue". I should explain that New Wine has a tradition of "ministry", that is inviting people to come forward to be prayed for, usually at the end of a meeting. I'm not averse to the practice. But neither of us felt inclined to that evening. God, it appears, simply and unexpectedly responded to Jane's personal prayer before it was completed where she was standing, and afterwards sent some stranger to embrace her sadnesses. I was heading to leave, unprayed for, when a friend of Jane's and two others asked if they might pray with me. I don't remember their prayers, but I do recall the sense of God caring about me, that he'd not consigned me to the scrapheap - which that night was important in view of Jane's being "surprised by joy".
That's not the end of the story by any means. However it did mark a sea-change for me - which, as it turned out, was a good thing.

My sleep was not the best that night, in that I woke quite a bit. But next morning I seemed none the worse, and we headed up the road again for another day of chance encounters and planned sessions. This time Alan Scott’s teaching stirred me more, and he showed this uncanny knack, or sensitivity to God’s voice, of knowing what was wrong with people. No doubt cynics would say that simply on the law of averages in a group of more than a thousand you’re bound to have a number of people who’ve had reconstructive surgery and have metal causing them problems. But it was more specific than that. It did occur to me in this connection that second-hand accounts aren’t sufficient. Even seeing miracles with your eyes still leaves room for disbelief. I could tell you of individuals I saw doing things they couldn’t previously, people out of pain for the first time, scar-tissue restored, but I don’t suppose it would convince you - but then I don’t believe that was the point at all. If miracles have a point, it is, I think, to show the individual that the God who loves the cosmos also cares about them. And that is something which is very hard to credit.

I hesitate to tell you about my own minor miracle which happened the next morning. Although I describe it as “minor”, I have to say its impact on me has been major. There’s a phrase in the prophecy which Jesus applied to his mission: “to bestow on them... a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair”. You’ll understand that deep in diseases like MND lurks “a spirit of despair”. For me it’s symbolised in the longing to dance. My friend, Louise, who has Muscular Dystrophy, introduced me to the song by Lee Ann Womack “I hope you dance”: 
“Promise me that you'll give faith a fighting chance
And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance,
I hope you dance  I hope you dance.” 
I wasn’t thinking about it at the time, but when someone crossed the aisle and asked me to dance, to be honest, my mind freaked out. “You’re joking me, aren’t you?” I thought to myself. “Have you any idea what’s wrong with me? You’re not very tall, are you? Do you know I had a fall this morning and it took three people to get me back on my feet? You must be joking.” I’ve no doubt my fear was obvious in my eyes, as I desperately looked at Jane to rescue from this madness. However, Heather didn’t seem phased in the least. “I think I’ve heard God telling me, ‘Go and ask that man over there to dance with you.’” She didn’t look mad, I must say; just kind and calm. As she and Jane helped me to my feet on rigid legs, she said with a smile, “I am a physio. I won’t let you fall. Don’t worry.” Easier said than done! Yet it wasn’t too many minutes before I did stop worrying, and actually relaxed! She held me in a waltz hold. I admit my leg muscles were obdurate, but I can find no better expression than that my spirit danced - which is something I have not for a long time, if ever, experienced - a simple sense of being in time and in tune with praise. I discovered that it’s possible to stand and enjoy worship, even with a body like mine. And I trust that if and when the time comes that my body cannot stand at all my spirit will still dance. I’m told I was standing there doing the soft shoe shuffle for more than ten minutes. Sadly Heather was leaving before the last day, and so that was my one and only dancing lesson, but not my only trusting lesson, of New Wine.

My reflections for my sceptical self (who has admittedly shrunk) include these: what on earth possesses someone to think of dancing with a stranger she’s only seen from behind in a tilt-in-space wheelchair (i.e. which shows his muscles are feeble)? What gives her the courage to go and ask him? And to risk being rebuffed? Now the obvious thing would be to pray for healing. But where did this very specific insight come from? I wasn’t sitting there at that moment wishing I was dancing. No one else was jigging about. It wasn’t a case of mind-reading - from behind! It was almost as if someone knew better than myself what I most needed. After all, physical healing, great though it would be, would at best be temporary - and, I hasten to say, I’m up for a cure whether through scientists or intercessors anytime - but to dance in worship would last somewhat longer. So, sceptical me, what’s the answer? (Sotto voce) I guess it must be God - and a woman who trusted. And what confirms that answer is the change from the shadow of hopelessness to hope, which you may recall is one of the three great gifts of the Holy Spirit which Paul writes about, “Now faith, hope and love abide, and the greatest of these is love.” Hope says, You have a future, and it’s a good one.

However, as Alan Scott enjoyed saying, “And if that was all, it would have been good....” But it wasn’t. I lost count of the signs of God’s concern after that, like the chiropractor who prayed with us in the car park. Two final incidents are enough. On the last morning our great friends, Anne and David, were up as day visitors. They’ve been friends many years and been great encouragers to say the least. Before we came home in the mid-afternoon, we were in the worship venue and I wanted to stand to sing, with Jane on my left. Suddenly David came on my right and supported me. I could think of few better scenarios, in worship between good friend and best of wives!

The man in the wheelchair wearing a green top

The last scene to report happened a few hours earlier. We were on the way out of Venue 2 when one steward asked us if we wanted prayer. Jane said no; I said yes, as there’d been mention of backs needing realignment. As people know I’ve developed a right-hand list, caused by weak muscles. I’d noticed it when I “danced” the day before. So, duly closing my eyes, I was prayed for by a couple of helpers and felt heat down my back. I’m not making a claim about the result, but what happened when I opened my eyes was this. I was faced by serried ranks of children. They were a group from the Rock Solid children’s club, who’d been looking for a man in a wheelchair wearing a green top to pray for. Why? Because in their group they’d been looking for “treasure”, i.e. asking God what he wanted them to go out and do. And that was what they “heard” him saying. And there they’d found their treasure. Would I mind them praying for me? Of course not. So Jane explained what was wrong, and some of them prayed for me. Again the sceptical could find ways to explain away the specifics of the “word” they had. I was simply moved, and stood in appreciation.

I have to say that, even in the euphoria of Great Britain’s medal success in the Olympics, I find the impact of the kingdom of God (as theologians call it), as I experienced it last week, as even better. What the week was trying to say and model was that God whose creation is the universe wants to communicate with and cares for every individual, whoever they are and whatever their needs. That’s exceedingly exciting. Furthermore it showed that human distinctions, such as gender and colour, class and education, are irrelevant in the "kingdom". What matters is the One who is at the centre. It's a very liberated and liberating world, which is worth finding. And I have to say that it's clear to me that an outbreak, or perhaps I mean "inbreak", of that kingdom would, and I trust will, be even better than a permanent Olympic summer.

Wow?

Like most people, I gather, I was blown away by the Olympic Opening Ceremony last night. It was of course technically spectacular and visually stunning. I liked the fact that there was a sort of narrative and also some irony verging on self-mockery. I can understand why a Tory MP detected a socialist agenda in Danny Boyle's extravaganza, only seeing focus on suffragettes, the NHS, and sideswipes at bankers and exploitative industrialists. However I don't think there was a party political agenda; it was more a series of a few big images of British heritage and life, strung together with a thin story line. And it was brilliantly (and extravagantly) done. The immediate reaction of many friends on Facebook has been, "Wow, wow, wow!"

Nevertheless, after I'd listened to the lighting of the cauldron (I didn't stay up to watch, but have done since then on YouTube), I lay in bed and thought, "Yes, that was a great show. I'm glad I watched the bulk of it. But do I approve?" Do I approve of the arms race of Olympic openings? The continual effort to do bigger and better than anything before - epitomised by having the torch brought by a special effects speed boat driven by a millionaire footballer and ending up with seven young athletes lighting a succession of "petals" which came together to create the "cauldron".

Once, a long time ago, there were games in ancient Greece where people competed for nothing more than a garland of herbs. (We're priding ourselves on our gold medals weighing twice as much as China's in 2008 - get a life!) Once the Olympics were strictly for amateurs. Now our athletes are highly rewarded professionals. Once a single athlete ran into a stadium and lit the Olympic torch alone.

It's sad, I think, that corporate sponsorship - "the Cocalympics" - and the entertainment industry have such a stranglehold on the Olympic movement that no one has the bottle to say, "Enough is enough. Money is needed more elsewhere. We do not have to be bigger and better." I agreed with Trevor Nelson on the BBC commentary team who, during the parade of the athletes, said something like, "This, to me, is always the best part of the ceremony - seeing the national athletes who have trained so hard for so long, coming into the stadium." That is what the Games are about. Let's have less of the competitive corporate razzamatazz, and more simplicity.

Chameleons change colour depending where they are

I'm not going to comment on the rights and wrongs of the issue of "gay" or "equal" marriage, since I've already blogged about it here, "Humpty Dumpty or Brave new world?". As you may remember the principle that most concerned me was governments trying change reality by redefining language. I'm happy for people who love each other to live together with long-term commitment. And I readily concede that Christians, including me, have been slow to wish them well, for which I'm sorry.

However this time I'm concerned with the nature of politics and the behaviour of politicians in particular. You may remember that before Christmas the Prime Minister made a much trumpeted speech to church leaders in Oxford, of which the Daily Mail's headline was "Speak up for Christianity, Cameron tells Archbishop: PM calls on the Church to defend 'values and moral code' of the Bible". Earlier this week he made a speech (not so widely publicised) to prominent members of the gay, lesbian and bi-sexual community,  in Downing Street of which the Telegraph's headline was "We will legalise gay marriage by 2015, says David Cameron. David Cameron has given a personal guarantee to legalise gay marriage by 2015 - despite unease among his own MPs and his core Conservative supporters. The best account of what he said on each occasion was here:
http://conservativehome.blogs.com/thetorydiary/2011/12/david-cameron-we-are-a-christian-country-and-we-should-not-be-afraid-to-say-so.html, and here:
http://news.pinkpaper.com/NewsStory/7584/25/07/2012/david-cameron-calls-on-churches-to-get-behind-gay-marriage.aspx. I'm sure he would deny it, but it looks very much like a case of saying what your audience wants to hear. "But surely that's the stock in trade of all politicians?" I fear you may be right, but if so it's a sad state of affairs. There once was a phrase "conviction politics". You knew what a politician stood for, what their convictions were. Now it's a case of "focus-group" or "opinion-poll politics" and politicians are merely reflections of what they think we want to hear.

For me, the comedy "Twenty Twelve" has been the redeeming feature of all the Olympic hype to which we have been subjected in an ever-increasing crescendo. Most wonderful of all, emerging from the PR company, Perfect Curve, like a star, has been the character of Siobhan, with her indomitable optimism and unsurpassed ability to do instantaneous u-turns and to create mutually contradictory concepts: Watch Siobhan Sharpe in full flow. In the final episode, which you can still watch on iPlayer, Siobhan's stream of consciousness has infected the rest of the Olympic Deliverance Team, "totally, guys. So that's good!" I even detected some Siobhanisms in the chef de mission of Team GB on BBC Radio 4 this morning. (By the way, that's a phrase that really makes me grind my teeth - something Jane's trying to cure me of - "team GB". It's not just the phrase, though why we can't just use our country's name like every other nation defeats me; it's also the religious uniformity (no, that's unfair to religions) with which commentators use it. Clearly a governmental edict has gone forth, and those who transgress and say "Great Britain" face being thrown on to the fiery scrapheap.) Oh for the return of the individual!

Kenyan chameleon - Superstock photo

With Siobhan it is great entertainment. One of my friends described her as her "fave English person", which is fine as long as she's a caricature on screen. But when our politicians adopt her modus operandi of sailing with whatever wind is prevailing at that moment, "absolutely", then it is a danger signal. In fact people responded to the likes of Margaret Thatcher and Ken Livingstone because, agree with them or not, their principles were clear and consistent. When I consider the Leader of Her Majesty's Opposition, or the Leader and Deputy Leader of Her Government, I'm not sure I recognise any clear convictions between them, except to try to please people. They're like chameleons. I clearly remember my one encounter with one of these wonders of nature outside my temporary home in Kenya. He, or she, was a handsome creature. But I don't want my politicians to be chameleons, changing their colour according to their background. Above all, I don't want a Prime Minister named David Chameleon. Even so, I trust he's able to have a relaxing and hard-earned holiday with his family this summer. Despite the perks, he has a tough job. Bless him!

Grand Prix disgrace

I'm doing fine. However I'm a bit wrapped up in my book at the moment, and so I'm afraid I'll have to resort to short bulletins, or borrow from other sources. (What's new?) Good news and bad news this weekend as far as I'm concerned. Good - Bristol City escaped relegation from the Championship, and, the bad - Formula 1 Grand Prix took place in Bahrain despite the violent suppression of the Shiite majority by the ruling Sunni élite. All the local majority want is to be given the vote, and yet civil rights campaigners are arrested and shot in their "Arab Spring" and the doctors who treated them banged up in jail after sham trials.

Bernie Ecclestone, Jean Todt and their millionaire pals claim that F1 is merely a sport and nothing to do with politics. They show a strangely short memory of history and a blinkered view of reality. They seem to have forgotten the part that the cricket and rugby boycotts played in bringing apartheid to an end in South Africa. I'm proud of the lead that David Sheppard gave. Of course sport and politics are intimately bound up. Why were we so keen to land the Olympics? And so annoyed at not hosting the World Cup? Because they're a source of prestige and, we hope, income for the country. And that's exactly why the Bahraini government wanted to stage the Grand Prix again - in spite of their grisly human rights record. The one good thing is that it seems to have backfired in their face somewhat, as the world has suddenly become aware of the unrest and human rights abuses in their country to a degree which wouldn't otherwise have happened. No one can be under the illusion that life is back to normal now - and hopefully no one will forget, and even more it is to be hoped that the Formula 1 circus won't return there next year, unless they have put their civil rights' house in order.

I know it's a gesture which made no difference except to me, but I boycotted the BBC broadcast race highlights and I don't even know the results order. Probably they were contracted to broadcast it, but personally I think they should have starved the race of the oxygen of publicity. I admit my boycott was silly but still it was satisfying in a sedentary way.

Tankers and bankers

Give the - I was going to say, the poor man, but that wouldn't exactly be accurate - the rich man a break. A few years ago, my late aunt bequeathed to me some Royal Bank of Scotland shares, which was very kind, not least because they were worth quite a bit. Sadly, I didn't cash them in, and now, as everyone knows, they're practically worthless, thanks to the good offices of the benighted and knighted Fred Goodwin. They're worth about a twentieth of what they used to be, which is a massive fall by any count. Now I'm not too fussed about my personal wealth, to be honest. We have enough to get by and to enjoy life. For example, we've have just booked to see Dreamboats and Petticoats when it comes to Oxford in the summer, including the wise-in-hindsight line: 'It's no good living beyond your means. If everyone did that, the whole country would go bankrupt.'

Dreamboats and Petticoats © The Guardian 

Of course, that's what Northern Rock and RBS did massively, and at the time it seemed impossible not to bail them out - hence the government owning a whopping 84% majority shareholding of newly created RBS shares. I'm not complaining, as my shares were a gift in the first place, but I have been interested in their fate ever since. RBS was clearly built on foundations of endebted sand (like of course many Western economies, including our own). Sir Fred Goodwin was hoofed out and in 2008 Stephen Hester was shoe-horned in to rescue the company.

I am not happy with the huge disparity of wealth existing in our country in a time of economic austerity. I don't like the £millions salaries and bonuses that executives award to themselves and each other. In my view there is no justification for them. No one needs such vast sums year after year, and frankly I don't buy the talent-drain argument. But I actually can see some logic in offering Mr Hester a £2000 cash plus almost a million in shares package, if, as he seems to be doing, he steers the loss-making RBS tanker off the rocks and turns it around. What more effective incentive could there be for a banker than to see the value of his shares rise as the company enters profitability? In the meantime, we, the taxpayers, would have the prospect of eventually recovering the £85 billion we sank into the out-of-control vessel four years ago - or even making a profit.... That could, given the political will, be useful in reviving the economy and creating jobs for our young people.

Of course, £85,000,000,000 is not a bottomless pot in national terms, but it's not peanuts. Unless Mr Hester and co succeed in turning round the company, it'll be more like a bottomless pit. I sometimes wish populist politicians, like Mr Miliband, would ignore the tabloid pack and pause to think what the cost of failure at RBS before taking pot-shots at the messenger his government appointed.

Meanwhile, in order to be even-handed, I scarcely believed when Jane told me that the cost of the opening and closing parties of the Olympics and Paralympics had jumped from £40 million to £80 million, and the budget for security had also doubled to £553 million. Maybe the security is necessary. Maybe we have intelligence of a major Al-Quaida threat. The minister, Hugh Robertson, blamed the Arab Spring, which his leader supported to the tune of £950 million in Libya. It seems to have increased insecurity here.

But the opening? Apparently we're going to have the biggest bell in Europe cast - er? Why? "Ask not for whom the bell tolls," perhaps. So we can ring the death  knell for the British economy? We're going to call the ceremony, 'The Isles of Wonders', to celebrate both Shakespeare (The bell is to be inscribed with Caliban's description of the island in The Tempest, "Be not afeard, the isle is full of noises".) and the National Health Service... The Tempest's island is of course not part of Great Britain. I was mildly amused to see an academic article beginning, "The evidence is overwhelming that Shakespeare not only set The Tempest on a Caribbean island,..." - Jamaica, possibly, home of Usain Bolt and tipped by Asafa Powell to make a clean sweep of the men's 100 metres? Even were the bard thinking of England, the end of the play is not exactly encouraging, as it leaves Caliban and his two drunken companions in charge of the island, and we're left to speculate what sort of government they'll end up being - while the rest return to the civilization of Italy!

In the "Austerity Olympics" of 1948, Janie Hampton, Olympic historian, told the Today Programme that "no money was spent at all". There were young people, choirs, orchestra and military band. And it was a jolly good show. The Edinburgh Tattoo is pretty impressive too. I'm not sure why we need to have all the latest gizmos, light shows, professionals and excessive fireworks - and try to outdo other openings. The Government constantly tells us we have to economise and that we're in a time of austerity. Too right! And yet all of a sudden, there go our taxes (or our national overdraft) on what are only games. A better way to celebrate the NHS would be to divert £40 million in its direction, rather than use the money as a prodigal means of telling the country how much the coalition loves the health service despite the cuts it's making.

The people's Olympics

I've not yet met anyone who's managed to land a ticket for the Olympics next year. One person I know applied for £1000 worth (a sort of spread betting - a bit risky!) but even he wasn't allocated any. I don't know how many corporate tickets have been doled out, but I bet it was a lot. So much for it being "the people's Olympics"! 

On the other hand just last Friday my bank rang me about an unusual transaction: "London theatre tickets?" It turned out it was a debit for tickets for three afternoons at the Paralympics. I'd applied for three tickets on each afternoon - and it appears I've got all of them. Whey-hey!! As the events are equestrian and rowing it looks as if we'll be enjoying some rather good events next summer - and as I need someone to push my wheelchair the tickets were amazingly good value - £10 for me and my handler, for each afternoon! What I hope and trust is that other people who applied for the Paralympics will have a similar success rate. As I imagine corporate entertainment won't have hogged those tickets, I reckon the Paralympics will be the real people's Olympics - which is excellent news. As I've said previously, disabled people are no less human or worthy of dignity than the able-bodied. And certainly the achievements of disabled athletes are equal, if not greater, than those of their able-bodied counterparts.

Those who write the disabled off and who see nothing but doom and gloom in a disabling condition need their heads and consciences examined.

On Wenlock Edge

On Wenlock Edge the wood's in trouble

His forest fleece the Wrekin heaves;

The gale, it plies the saplings double,

And thick on Severn snow the leaves.

'Twould blow like this through holt and hanger

When Uricon the city stood:

'Tis the old wind in the old anger,

But then it threshed another wood.

Then, 'twas before my time, the Roman

At yonder heaving hill would stare:

The blood that warms an English yeoman,

The thoughts that hurt him, they were there.

There, like the wind through woods in riot,

Through him the gale of life blew high;

The tree of man was never quiet:

Then 'twas the Roman, now 'tis I.

The gale, it plies the saplings double,

It blows so hard, 'twill soon be gone:

To-day the Roman and his trouble

Are ashes under Uricon.

So mused the rather sad Professor Housman, best known for his poetry ('The Shropshire Lad' set to music by numerous composers), about the part of Shropshire where we've just been staying with the family. In fact the view (above) from the back of the house, including the conservatory where we sat, was looking over the Eaton Brook up to Wenlock Edge itself. And it's true that when the wind was up, the forest fleece would heave and the thinner trees bend, if not double, at least out of vertical. We were further south than Wroxeter (the Roman town that A E Housman calls Uricon and the fourth largest Roman settlement in Britain) but there was a reminder of the past in the name nearby of Roman Bank.


Although with three young grandchildren it might not have been physically quiet all the time, spiritually it was actually peaceful. We seemed to escape the unquiet that troubled first the Roman and then the poet. The weather wasn't the best, but it compelled less activity than sometimes - with the exception of the small swimming pool adjacent to where we were, which we enjoyed to the max.

Jane with Buttercup the cow

And some days it were grand. Like when we went to Acton Scott Farm Museum which was just 10 minutes away. Jane's years of practice with Mishka the Vicarage goat were obviously not wasted. Milking the rather static cow - no problem. Meanwhile Clumper the shire-type horse who starred on the recent BBC series, 'Escape in Time', was busy in the wheelchair-hostile farmyard, kibbling the corn (i.e. bruising it to make it more digestible).

Clumper of 'Escape in Time' fame

Tree by stream in Cardingmill Valley

And then there was Cardingmill Valley, in Church Stretton, going up the Long Mynd. I enjoyed that, ending up at two vantage points: one of a beautiful tree with its exposed root system, and the other further up reached courtesy of the sweated labour of my family where I could listen to and watch the stream carving its way off the hillside. I was happy as Larry!

Note the harebell l.h.bottom corner

We had gourmet feasts each day, thanks to six different chefs, with the notable exception of the seventh day - when it was my turn. Of course, I cheat, and, after careful research, find the Ludlow Assembly Rooms which I read is 'family friendly' and has particular recommendations for its steak and kidney pie and its all-day breakfast. In fact, I quote: "If you see 'home made steak and kidney pie' on their board, it's top class. Also the ham, eggs and chips is a MUST. It's in Mill Street - round the corner form the market - good reliable Mum, Dad and kids destination, if a bit unadventurous."

Ludlow Castle (Tourist Board)

Well, it said it was entirely independent... but I should have researched a bit more and I'd have found the local rag reporting that the cultural flagship of Ludlow had been hit by the government's cut-backs. That would explain why their café-bar was staffed entirely by two hard-pressed ladies and after 2 by just one, and why we discovered there was no steak and kidney, the lasagne was off, the chocolate milk-shakes were pink, the plaice was equal measures of breadcrumbs and fish.... I don't blame them. It must be depressing being cut back to the bone. Fortunately my family forgave me, and the children thoroughly enjoyed the castle - that was worth going to Ludlow in itself.

Church Stretton Church
(©Kev747@English lang Wikipedia)

Our nearest town was Church Stretton - and that provided us with a better experience. Along with the large Coop, the parish church contained a welcome surprise: a tastefully reordered interior, with banners down the nave and suspended bronze tongues of the Spirit above the meeting of the transepts, comfortable seats around the dais with the old pews at the back. It was well done. The service on Sunday morning WAS family friendly. And in fact people were altogether friendly. The couple behind us chatted to us afterwards. It turned out they once lived in the village where Jane and I had a historic lunch 15 years ago! I was touched when he offered to pray for me then and there. I thought, 'This feels like real church'.

Meanwhile back at Eaton Manor, Nicola showed us the chicken shed which they have converted into an archery practice range. It's enormous, 76 metres long. The Olympic Bronze medallist, Alison Williamson, lives quite near and they needed somewhere to practise - and this is it. So when you see United Kingdom archers in action at the Commonwealth and Olympic Games, the chances are they'll have honed their skills here.

Eaton Archery Centre

For a few days, we had four generations of family - with Jane's parents joining us. They are excellent company, and enjoyed spending time with our half of the clan. 

One incredible evening we were having our meal when Jane suddenly noticed the almost full moon rising over Wenlock Edge. It was dramatic. Unfortunately, the mown cornfield which was glowing on the hillside doesn't show up on the photo.

Moon over Wenlock Edge

I think you could say the week was a feast of good things - which, as you know, are sent from Heaven above.