Travel Biography - Week 106.

The Day after Disneyland.

During my final stop in Santa Monica on the 1997 Round-the-World backpacking trip, starting and finishing in the UK, and having already spent a day with two colleagues in Disneyland, there were two more outings before heading to LAX International Airport. They were to Downtown Los Angeles and a 24-mile round trip cycle ride to Malibu.

But neither were before the next morning after arriving back from Disneyland. That was when Mike joined me for breakfast. He explained that Chris had gone to return the hired car to its owners before heading to the airport. That left Mike on his own with me. After breakfast, Mike wanted me to accompany him outside, and I soon realised why. He needed to make a phone call but wasn't sure how to go about it here in the States, and so he wanted me to make the call for him. And I did, having used the American payphone a couple of times already.

Mike talked over the phone to someone about a purchase transaction, I believe, for an electronic part of a hi-fi music unit. After the call was completed, we went into a cafe and as a reward, he bought me a coffee. We then returned to the hostel, and as we parted, he asked me to wait for him in the dining room while he returned to his dormitory. I waited...and waited...but he failed to make a return to the dining room. I eventually rose from the table and stepped outside.

The Broadway, Downtown Los Angeles

Pershing Square, Downtown Los Angeles.

On the cycleway to Malibu.

Mr Hammerhead guards the Malibu precinct.

I made my way along the coast west of the pier. My thoughts were troubled. Did I let Mike down? How did he feel when he saw an unoccupied table where he left me earlier? And sooner or later he would have to pass that way to get to the exit. And so, as I walked along, my emotions remained in flux. A moment of weakness on my part, perhaps? Or was he engaged in a deliberate plan to rid himself of me by staying in his dorm, perhaps even for a late morning nap? Did he perceive me as a clinger, someone in a desperate search for friendship? If the latter was true, then I would have been happier had he said clearly that he had to go now, but was happy to have me as company for the last 24 hours. Was I trying to cling to him? Unlikely, as lone travel usually called for stoicism. However, after that morning, I never saw him again, and I still had a few more days here. I assumed that he checked out on the same day.

As I kept on walking, I crossed the boundary of Santa Monica into the Malibu district. What I wasn't aware of was that Malibu lies outside the Los Angeles Administration area, hence leaving L.A. altogether. Yet, I just kept on walking along the coast until I arrived at a point level with Villa de Leon, 5.6 miles (9 km) west of Santa Monica Pier. The walk turned out to be an unplanned hike over 11 miles (18 km) long, and taking up a good chunk of the day. A site on the beach just west of the Villa was an ideal turnaround point. By the time I reached the hostel, it was already evening.

Downtown.

On one of the days at Santa Monica, I thought about visiting  Downtown Los Angeles, especially when considering that nobody at the hostel placed such a visit high on their priorities. For the majority of backpackers, Downtown L.A. held little or no interest. To them, it was just a huddle of tall office blocks interspersed with busy highways. In many ways, they were right. All the tourist spots lay outside of the Downtown area. Hollywood Studios lies to the northwest of the city, Santa Monica to the west, Long Beach to the southwest, and Disneyland in Anaheim, to the southeast. In 1995, I walked the length of East 7th Street from the city to the Greyhound Bus Terminal, some 1.6 miles (2.6 km) through uninteresting commercial sprawl. Yet that same sprawl was recognisable. It was featured in the 1970s cop drama series Starsky & Hutch.

My bike is seen here at the precinct.

The Lagoon at Malibu

Looking across the Lagoon from a sandbank.

Malibu Creek Estuary and Lagoon.

A non-stop bus links Santa Monica to the Downtown, making the journey rapid. Within thirty minutes, I was near Pershing Square, the central hub of the city. I recall Pershing Square as far back as 1977, my first visit to Los Angeles (inspired by the cop drama) - and again a year later in 1978. Back then, Pershing Square was an English-type garden with a circular pond with a fountain. When I revisited the same site in 1995, I was appalled at the monstrosity the fountain had become. It was a solid block of concrete forming a pillar from which the water tumbled.

I also walked through Broadway with its markets. Since I was already familiar with the street, I could see that no major changes had taken place there since my first visit in the seventies. I just wished that they kept Pershing Square to the original layout, a green, breathing lung in the heart of a bustling city.

The skyline remained unchanged from the 1995 visit, although very different from the seventies. I recognised many of the original buildings from that era, including the Bank of America Financial Center, a tower with alternating black and white vertical stripes, instantly recognisable in Starsky & Hutch and my own memories of the seventies. The taller, more modern-looking skyscrapers went up during the eighties, I believe. Among the cluster of tall office blocks were hotels, I assume, for visiting businessmen attending their conferences rather than catering to the tourists. One brand new hotel, the Westin Bonaventure Hotel consists of five cylindrical towers with the larger one in the middle and the four others at each of the four corners. It boasts several outdoor elevators, each with glass walls which gives a clear view of the city as it rises.

Anyone could use these elevators as they were open to the street. So I stepped into one and chose an upper floor. I didn't expect what happened next. As the lift rose along its shaft, the view of the receding ground gave me a sickening feeling of vertigo. I had to shut my eyes and block out the sensation. I have just discovered a weakness not felt by the majority who use these elevators. At last, the lift halted at the chosen floor, and I found myself in the corridor lined with room doors. From one, a businessman emerged and gave me a suspicious look as he walked by. But he took no action.

After reaching the ground, I didn't have far to go before arriving at the city library. It was a larger building than the one at San Luis Obispo, hence holding far more books. This time, I didn't browse like I did before. Instead, I did a thorough tour before boarding the bus back to the hostel.

Malibu.

It was the last but one day before flying back to London, and there was just one night to come to spend at the hostel. The following night I'll be flying some 35,000 feet above the Atlantic Ocean. That morning, which was Monday, my energy levels were high, prompted by nervousness about the coming journey. So what was better than hiring a bicycle and draining some of my energy on a pair of pedals?

I hired a bike from the same shop as I did in 1995. Back then, I rode from the pier to Little Venice and then back under the pier to Will Rogers State Beach, a 4.7-mile (7.6 km) stretch of the Ocean Front Walk. But this time, I wasn't as interested in Little Venice as I was in Malibu. After all, having completed an unplanned hike a couple of days previously, I wanted to explore further, perhaps as far as Malibu town itself. And what better way than by bicycle.

The 12-mile (19.3 km) ride was flat and smooth but not necessarily fast. Little wonder that the most devoted in cycling say that two wheels offer far better scenery than four wheels. Not only the absence of refuelling and polluting the air, but riding a bike offers fitness as well as a greater enjoyment of the scenery, the fresh air, and if riding off-road, greater safety as well.

Nearby residency, Malibu.

The Lagoon, Malibu

Backcountry seen from Malibu Creek.

Returning to Santa Monica.

I rode past Will Rogers State Beach along the Pacific Highway that would eventually lead to San Francisco. The urbanisation then petered out as I exited the L.A. administration area to enter the Malibu district. But I still had a few miles to cover before arriving at what I thought was the coastal town on the other side of the Malibu Creek and Lagoon. Here, there was a large shopping precinct, busy with people, and I naturally assumed that this was Malibu town, despite its small size for a town. In fact, Central Malibu, a larger settlement, is another seven miles further down the road and easily doable on a bicycle. If only I was better informed! I would have had no hesitation to cover the 19 miles from Santa Monica Pier to Central Malibu and back, totalling 38 miles (61 km) in a day. 

But as I checked Google Maps on Malibu to fill in memory gaps, I wondered whether Central Malibu would have been worthy of the extra seven miles of riding. It's a town like any other, and its coastline looked to be less spectacular than the lagoon area where I was. Furthermore, Central Malibu looked to be a vast residential area built on a hilly terrain, and as lifeless as any wealthy estate. As a consequence, it was no accident where Malibu Pier was located. It's on the east side of the lagoon, hence I had to ride past it to get to the shopping precinct. Unfortunately, the pier was closed for maintenance on the day I arrived, missing out on some spectacular photos of the lagoon as seen from the sea.

The shopping precinct was dominated by a pipe sculpture of a human hammerhead. That is the head of a hammer instead of a human looking out to sea as if guarding the precinct from a pirate or enemy invasion. Whether the sculpture is still there to this day is another matter. The precinct was alive and beating with people out on their errands. The lagoon gave extra character to what would have been a "boring" strip of sand lining the Californian coastline. In turn, the hilly backcountry of Malibu gives the area that extra dynamism that has made the whole day out a worthwhile experience.

Yet, this was my last full day in California with one more night to come at the AYH Santa Monica. This was different to 1995 when my visit to Santa Monica was followed by a week in San Francisco. Knowing that within a couple of days, I'll be back home in my apartment in Bracknell, the Round-the-World finished for good. Therefore, during my visit to Malibu, waves of sadness swept through my soul as I looked around under the balmy sunshine. I try to comfort myself. As I saw it, I couldn't see myself as a married man in any way soon. Therefore, another Round-the-World experience was in gestation within the womb of my mind. But that won't be at least in the year 2000 if not later. It's all to do with the budget.

By the evening, I was cycling back to Santa Monica. Near the Pier, I returned the bicycle safely and in good condition to the owners and made my way to the hostel to prepare dinner.

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Next Week: The flight home and time spent contemplating.

Travel Biography - Week 93.

A Small World? A Pure Coincidence? Or Divine Will? You Choose.

The two days I spent at the Blue Mountains National Park left no regrets. Rather, going out on a backcountry hike whilst staying in a city added momentum to the holiday. And that wasn't all. Two other day trips were also completed whilst living in the city. One was a ferry to Manly. The other was a combined bus and ferry to Palm Beach, the filming site for the popular tea-time soap, Home and Away.

These were planned events. But another of the unexpected arose when I was at Darling Harbour. But it wasn't anything negative this time, such as encountering a smartly dressed queue jumper. Instead, I was called from behind by two casually dressed Chinese undergraduates. However, I didn't recognise them at first until one of them reminded me that we met at the hostel in Brisbane.

View of the Gearstick from Darling Harbour, Sydney.

Museum Ships moored at Darling Harbour.

 Two undergrads I met first in Brisbane, then in Sydney.

Pyrmont Bridge from the City to Darling Harbour.

With this knowledge, I greeted them warmly. They then asked me to spend the rest of the day with them. As we walked around and talked, one of them suggested a cruise around the harbour. I thought that was a good idea and having bought my own ticket, boarded the boat with them.

It was while we were cruising along that I realised how big the harbour really was. We passed the twin buildings of the Opera House and headed seawards. A circuit was completed in an hour, arriving where we started, at the Circular Quay, between the Opera House and the Harbour Bridge.

The three of us spent the rest of the day together. Somehow, I marvelled at their level of hospitality, which I saw was quite contrary to the "Englishman's home is his castle" mentality of our national culture. So who were these two? Unfortunately, I had never recorded their names. Perhaps coming from China, their names I would have found difficult to pronounce. However, their bodily physiques were each distinct. One was tall and fairly slim, and he was the friendlier of the pair. The other was shorter in height, stockier in build, yet kept more to himself. However, he still had a friendly attitude towards me as well as his companion.

Where each studied, unfortunately, I wasn't able to recall, but apparently, they were students in China but had taken leave to backpack Australia together. However, the stockier one had to leave Sydney a day earlier than his companion. Whatever the reasons, it looked to me that the taller one found pleasure accompanying me as we explored the city together. However, I was assured that their separation had nothing to do with me but was already planned from the start of their adventures. One possibility was that each had a family at a different location, even if each studied at the same university. This may have necessitated different flights at different times of the day. At least, that was the hint I have gotten from my new friend who stayed behind.

Back at the hostel, we separated, with them going to their dormitory while I returned to mine to freshen up. Sometime later, I went into the kitchen to prepare dinner, and I sat alone, as usual, in the dining room. However, I was still there when the two students also arrived and took a vacant table by the window nearby. Again, it was the taller one who called me over to join them at their meal.

The meal they had was Chinese, and that included seaweed. Having already eaten, I didn't take any of their fare, but they persuaded me to try some seaweed after I had expressed surprise. I sampled some, and it tasted good. I found that it was almost addictive as I sampled more. The atmosphere between us was wonderful. It was as if we were all one family. Finally, we made our way to our dorms.

Sydney Opera House is seen from the cruiser.

The boat leaves the city far behind.

The cruiser reaches the mouth of the natural Harbour.

The next morning, the taller friend and I saw off his companion as he made his way by bus to the airport. His companion and I stayed together throughout the day until the evening when I saw him off to the airport. During that day, we didn't go far into town. Instead, on one occasion, he invited me to join him at the rooftop sauna. After I collected my gear, I made my way to the facility. He was already there, still fully dressed, but with a change of mind. He didn't want the sauna after all. Maybe there was something about the facility which he found offputting. What it was, I didn't get to ask. So we took the lift to the ground floor. Next to the reception hall was the games room. Here, we played snooker with a couple of other backpackers, forming a foursome. As expected, I didn't win!

That evening, he vacated the hostel and we both made our way to the appropriate bus stop. When the bus to the airport arrived, he boarded it alone. However, after settling down, he waved to me until the bus disappeared out of sight. Once again, I was by myself to continue with the rest of my 1997 Round-the-World trip.

It's here that I wish to correct an error I made on Week 76 of the Biography. In the last line of the 13th paragraph, I wrote:

I spent the rest of my RTW trip on my own, as no one had stepped forward to invite me to join them, and neither had I invited anyone to accompany me.

This was written in a referral to Singapore. Not long after arriving there, two European backpackers invited me to join them for the day to enjoy the facilities on Sentosa Island, including swimming in a leisure pool. This was when I learned never to rely on memory alone but to check the records, especially in the photo album. At the time of writing, I had forgotten about these two Chinese undergrads until I checked the photo album for reference and memory refreshing.

My intention is to write this Biography as accurately as possible and I apologise for the error in week 76.

A Ferry to Manly.

During the remaining days, I stayed in the vicinity of Sydney. This included a ferry sailing to Manly, a district north of the city. This trip goes to show how I felt drawn to natural features rather than urbanisation. And despite that, I was born in London, grew up there, and always felt nostalgic about Britain's capital. From my home town of Bracknell, I wouldn't hesitate to move back to London if all circumstances had been favourable. Unfortunately, failing secondary education dealt a fatal blow to that idea, mainly due to a lack of job opportunities.

However, with Manly, I didn't have any hiking or country walks planned for this trip across the harbour. Rather, it was to experience the ferry sailing itself. The boat had a bow at both ends, hence it was able to move in both directions without the need for a turnaround at the start of each sailing. On board, I found that the interior was very basic with no buffet or comfy lounge seating.

After arriving at Manly, I saw that the town was not unlike the 3rd Parade at Santa Monica, as this street, named the Corso, was also fully pedestrianised with decorative palm trees and artistic sculpture throughout its length. The Corso was the town's main shopping precinct and it was a through street from Manly Cove, where our boat docked at the wharf located there, to Manly Beach, on the other side of the peninsula and facing into the open ocean. Manly Beach was a favourite location for wetsuit-clad surfers. When I arrived at Manly Beach, I saw what appeared to be a surfing club in full swing. With the coolness of the June/July midwinter weather, the sea looked uninviting for a swimmer, and I had no regrets about leaving my gear at the hostel.

Instead, I saw what looked like a clifftop walk further south along the coast. This was North Head, a stubby headland, and from the air, forming a prominent upper lip of the harbour mouth. I wanted to see whether a footpath ran along the clifftop with the hope of a captivating view into the natural harbour.

I started to walk along the beach towards the headland. Sure enough, the path did ascend the hill, and pretty soon I was on the clifftop. However, the path carried on for some distance along the clifftop before it gradually petered out. Hoping to have completed a circuit, taking in some fantastic views and eventually ending up back at Manly, instead, I had no option but to turn back. Just as well. The ground ahead was covered in thick vegetation such as ferns. Could I prove that no venomous snakes or other harmful nasties were lurking in those bushes? And so, I returned to town in the same way I came out, a potentially picturesque hike ending in failure.

View of the opera House from the Manly Ferry.

Cruise ship view of the famous icon.

Meanwhile, in China...

Meanwhile, while I was staying in Sydney, another piece of the old British Empire was about to fall into the sea, so to speak. After all, Australia itself was once a British colony before it became independent in 1901, although it has remained in the Commonwealth to this day. This time it will be Hong Kong. On July 1st, 1997, this former British outpost was handed back to China after 156 years of British colonialism. I remember the occasion well. I was sitting in the hostel TV room with many other backpackers. The UK was under Tony Blair's New Labour administration which had only recently been elected into power, defeating John Major's Conservatives a mere several weeks earlier. And there he was, with Charles Prince of Wales, signing away over a century and a half of history to the Chinese President, Jiang Zemin. Why am I detailing this? This is another wonder with world travel. I was 10,620 miles from home, in the heart of Sydney City Centre whilst watching the world historic event happening on TV.

After the programme, preparing supper in its superb kitchen as the hostel routine continues.

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Next Week: a day trip to Palm Beach and the city itself before take off.

Also, the photos of Manly will appear in next week's blog. This was due to a lack of foresight during preparation.

Travel Biography - Week 2.

The Early Years at Bracknell.

We moved into a semi-detached, two-bedroom house in a Bracknell district of Easthampstead, once a village in its own right with its own parish church - St Michaels C. of E. - before the village was assimilated into Bracknell town by its Development Corporation (now replaced by Bracknell Forest Borough Council.) Our new home was a vastly different environment from the city life I grew up in. A modern dwelling without a basement, without cellars, a front lawn without any fencing or hedges, and a private back garden was a delight to Dad, as the plot was a source of developing new skills, including transforming a bank of dirt into a delightful rockery. Beyond the garden, our bedroom window looked across a field on which a lone horse happily grazed.

A. Stevenson at St Georges Square - my childhood home. 

Then, in December 1966, we moved again to another of Bracknell's districts, Bullbrook, a residential estate named after the brook that flowed underground, to emerge as a stream at nearby Binfield, to wind its way eventually to join the River Thames. This house has three bedrooms, which means that for the first time in my life (then aged 14) I had my own bedroom.

Having Italian parents, Dad always dreamed of driving a car all the way to Italy, using the cross-Channel ferry from Dover to Calais. And so, in 1966, he began to fulfil his dream.

A Family Trip to Italy.

In August of 1966, whilst still living in Easthampstead, all the luggage was piled on the roof of our silver Riley. We waved goodbye to a couple of neighbours and we set off. Our destination? Turin, in the Piedmont province of Northern Italy. But, as I will eventually realise, it was nothing like a beach or an adventure holiday. Instead, we would be staying at la casa di Nonni or the home of my maternal grandparents who cannot speak or understand a word of English.

The highlight of the holiday, at least for me, anyway, was the Channel crossing. Unfortunately, it was done late at night, but I still remember the street lights of Dover receding into the distance as the ship rocked gently as it traversed over the waves. Around ninety minutes later, we docked at Calais. 

We drove out from the ferry's parking deck, onto dry French ground. As we eventually left the French port, we saw a large sign which read: Facon, in large red letters over an illuminated white background. We all gasped, and then laughed. We then realised afterwards that Facon is a brand name for a beer, just like in the day, Watneys dominated our English brands of ale. But the way the sign was placed at that location, beside the road out of Calais, gave the impression of an incorrectly-spelt message ordering us to move on with the rudest of vulgarism. Some years later, I actually ordered a glass of Facon beer at a bar during a solo trip to France in the 1980s. The beer tasted really good!

We stopped a little further on to sleep in the car for the remainder of the night. From outside a house, a dog began to bark. Annoyed, Dad drove further until we reached a quiet spot on the road. Then we parked the car at a layby and settled for some sleep. Hence, a foreign holiday on the tightest of budgets. No hotels, no amusements, no beach, mountain or beauty spot. Just a long drive across France to reach Italy to spend with Mum's parents.

The next day, we managed to reach Paris. At the French capital, a pre-arranged agreement was made to meet Mum's parents, probably at the Gare du Nord railway terminus, as Nonno was intrigued with the nearby Basilique du Sacre Coeur. So, after plenty of hugs and kisses, Nonni climbed into their car and we into ours, and both cars made their way to the Church of the Sacred Heart.

The church is built on a hill known as the Butte Montmartre, the highest point in Paris. Thus, I recall the splendid view right across the city, not much different from the view of London seen from the summit of Parliament Hill in Hampstead Heath. We spent a considerable time looking over the view before setting off for a quick visit to the other city attractions until it was time for us to proceed with the journey to Turin.

It was on a fast freeway, so straight, that we were moving faster than what our car was designed for. So, in the middle of nowhere, a sudden noise from the engine and the vehicle ground to a halt indicating a major breakdown. With our grandparents forced to stop behind us, it was agreed for our car to be towed to the next town, which was Chalone-sur-Saone, not too far from Dijon. There, the family split at the town's station. Mum, along with my brother, joined her parents and drove all the way to Turin. Meanwhile, due to the lack of space in my grandparent's car, Dad and I had to take the train for the rest of the journey, much to his disappointment with an unfulfilled dream.

As Nonni set off, Dad and I had a six-hour wait for our train for Turin to arrive. After a walk around town, we spent the rest of that evening in the waiting room. Throughout that time, several trains stopped at the station whiles others thundered through. It was well past midnight when our train finally arrived.

The 1960s Riley. Ours broke down in France.

The train was chock-a-block packed, mainly with college-student-type passengers, most of them just a few years older than me. Although Dad went from compartment to compartment via the side corridor, not a single seat was unoccupied and we were left standing in the corridor as the train thundered noisily along. That night, neither my father nor I had a wink of sleep. When the train pulled into Modane Station, it was still dark outside. When we emerged out of the 8.5-mile, 13.7 km Mont Cenis Tunnel, it was beginning to get light when the train stopped at the first Italian station - Bardonecchia. Eventually, the train journey ended at Torino Porta Nuova (Turin Newgate.)

The rest of the holiday, to be honest, was crushingly boring! Stuck in a top-floor apartment overlooking a square lining Via Giacomo Dina, the constant flurry of Italian words flying through the air from mouth to ears made me (and my brother) feel excluded from the family. With boredom came frustration, and more than once my grandfather shouted at me with a torrent of words I couldn't understand. Fortunately, as if a gift from heaven, a swing playground was nearby, and each day I went down the series of steps to escape the commotion of Italian domestic life. The return journey homeward was entirely by train, from Torino Porta Nuova to Bracknell. Later, Dad had to return to France on his own to collect his repaired car.

College Days.

Eventually, I left school without any qualifications at Easter 1968, then aged 15, and began work as an apprentice wood finisher. And "wood finisher" is the appropriate title, as French polish wasn't used at this family-owned business. Instead, synthetics were used, and much quicker, using a spray gun rather than the prolonged application of shellac by hand. My first task? To sweep the floor, a duty I had to engage in every weekday morning for the next three of the five years I worked there. Also, by working in an all-male environment, I had to endure teasing for being Italian, and also I had to absorb a lot of smut.

It was during this time, under Government law, the boss had to grant me a day's release to attend college, the London College of Furniture, located in Pitfield Street, in the London borough of Shoreditch. Before me, and leading up to my day, every apprentice attending college took the early morning train from Bracknell to Waterloo, then took the #11 bus to Old Street. I had to be different. I was the first-ever apprentice in the history of the business to take the Tube from Waterloo to Old Street, changing trains just once at the Elephant & Castle interchange station.

My method of travel caused pandemonium in the factory! Being the first-ever employee to use the Tube instead of the bus to get across London, other students began to follow my example, until the bus route was forgotten and the Tube journey to Old Street was standardised.

How did this come about? Due to becoming very familiar with the London Underground when I was still at school. Back then, my parents allowed me to travel to London for the day, mainly to walk the Chelsea Embankment and visit Battersea Park. But at the same time, I became familiar with areas around the West End and as far as the City, and thus, by choice, I familiarised myself with the London Underground. Having grown up in Pimlico, I might have left London at eleven years of age, but London had never left me.

And so, at age 16 and in my second year at college, I met a classmate named Andrew Duncan Stevenson. We became fast friends, and 52 years later, we still keep in touch, even to the extent of spending a day together in London like any two boys. 

Yet it was unfortunate for Andrew to have seen the weaker side of me. It was the end of college exams and the end of term, that we celebrated in a pub, despite still being underage. I got drunk on several glasses of whisky, and eventually lost all common sense and the self-preservation instinct needed to stay alive. We entered the Underground station at Old Street and acting as a drunk would, I swaggered as we made our way to the platform. I then stepped off the platform, onto a ledge along the tracks, a little way under the edge and inches from the rail. One slip and I would have burned literally to cinder from electrocution, had I touched the live rail. Instead, I climbed back onto the platform and staggered up the elevators.

Why did I behave like that? Really, because deep inside I was miserable. I was locked in a job I grew to hate and endured filthy smut, and relentless teasing from fellow employees. Furthermore, my apprenticeship was far from fulfilled, as the older employees who were meant to train us were reluctant to pass their knowledge on. Little wonder the firm eventually went out of business a decade or so later. All I was good at was pushing a broom - as well as the feeling of worthlessness within my own family.

By the time I was 18, I was taking a girl out, a ginger hair female with the name of Sandra. She had a younger sister, Alison, and one Sunday, Andrew coupled with Alison and I with Sandra, and we as a foursome took a train out from London Victoria to the coast, where we spent the day. It was to Sandra that I first asked how would she feel about spending a week at Butlins Holiday camp and sharing a chalet there as an unmarried couple. She was keen but Butlins wasn't. So, in 1972, our booking application for Butlins was rejected.

Feeling at a loss, I began to look through foreign holiday brochures. One holiday was within our budget, a hotel room at a Spanish holiday resort, a small town bearing the name Tossa de Mar on the Costa Brava. I then attempted a booking with the holiday firm Cosmos for the both of us. To my amazement, the booking was accepted. Apparently, Cosmos didn't hold on to the puritan morality of Butlins!

As the Spanish holiday began to draw near, our relationship began to deteriorate. The reason for this was that she wanted to tie the knot and feel the security of a married wife. I was too immature to take such a responsibility, but I agreed to marry her anyway. Then, in April or May of 1972, she eventually ditched me. I pleaded with her father at her Wimbledon home, but all he did was tell me to beat it, you're finished, and closed the door. As I sat alone on the train heading back to Bracknell from London, I was weeping.

Tossa de Mar, Spain.

I then visited Andrew at his home in Southall, Middlesex, and I wept in his presence. I then asked him how he would feel if he came with me to Spain in place of Sandra. He was willing. Furthermore, Cosmos was willing to make the booking amendment on condition that Andrew paid his full fare. August 1972, saw Andrew and me flying out with Dan-Air from London Gatwick to Gerona Airport, a two-hour flight that will be the start of a massive turning point in my life.  

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NEXT WEEK: Two Contrasting Holidays - A Bathtub and a Volcano lets off steam.

                                                           *****

Note: Permission was sought and granted for Andrew Stevenson's name and picture to be published here.

A Trip to a Museum Has Shaken Me.

One of the benefits of retirement is that I can use public transport midweek, where on the trains, I can be assured of a full service without worrying about weekend engineering works on the line and the dreadful replacement buses slowing the journey down to a crawl. And so, a trip to London on the eve of the Queen's 70-year Jubilee extended Bank Holiday proved to be a worthwhile experience.

And indeed, I should be thankful. Very thankful! As I buy a Travelcard ticket from a machine and pass through the barriers onto the station platform, at the same time, there were hundreds, probably thousands, of passengers waiting to board an aeroplane, being told by a police officer that their holiday to the sunshine Mediterranean coast is cancelled. All due to staff shortages after shedding thousands of jobs due to the recent Coronavirus pandemic.

And so, I eventually arrive at the gates of the British Museum, located in the well-to-do Bloomsbury District of Central London. As I hesitated, a marshall called me over and asked for my small backpack to be checked. Thinking that I was unlucky enough to be randomly selected as if I looked to be a potential terrorist, I submitted the bag to his inspection. Satisfied that I won't blow the museum up to Kingdom come, he directed me straight to the main entrance without any further ado. It was at that moment that I realised that I was bypassing a queue leading up to the main airport-style security station, an apparently recently-erected separate edifice up to a hundred metres away from the outer gate.

British Museum, London. The main entrance.

Oh, what a shame to have such tight security checks just to visit a museum. As I recall previous visits to this venue over the last forty years or so, where anyone can just walk up to the main entrance without any bag checks, I see parents carrying their newborns and young children. Indeed, the coming generation will grow up to believe that security checks at public buildings were always the norm and think little or nothing of it. It's people of my age who sigh over the decrease in social trust.

In one of the ground floor galleries, a crowd had gathered around a large glass cubicle, their cameras, mobile phones and tablets snapping away as each took pictures of the Rosetta Stone housed inside the casing. And I sigh over this as well. I recall around 40 years ago when this particular exhibit was housed in one of the upstairs galleries. Erected on a metal stand, it was approachable to the point of touch. Back then, I recall a small group of uniformed schoolboys running up with the loud, excited exclamation, Wow! The Rosetta Stone! Indeed, those boys must have attended a good school, as I never heard of this ancient artefact until well into adulthood.

But why the need to house this massive slab of stone inside a glass casing remains a bit of a mystery. Maybe, with the constant touching, there was a threat of the writing carved into the surface suffering slow erosion, as if from a lead pencil on paper. Rather, the rock on which the writing is carved is a granodiorite stone, a hard intrusive material of igneous origin and related to granite. Not the type of exhibit in danger of crumbling into powder such as chalk, sandstone, or clay would. Yet, with Egyptian, Demotic and Ancient Greek scripts all telling the same tale of the Egyptian King Ptolomy, the Rosetta Stone became the key source for graphologists to learn how to decipher the Egyptian hieroglyphics.

Or maybe housing the stone in a glass cubicle protects it from possible theft. But I still find it difficult to imagine an opportunist burglar snatching the stone from its place in the middle of the night and then making off with it, a slab around a metre in size and weighing a ton, stuffed into his duffle bag slung across his shoulder before making his escape! 

With ancient Egypt already on my mind, I made my way upstairs to the Egyptian Gallery. Here is a display of coffins which housed Egyptian mummies, along with some mummies themselves. They too were all in glass cases, but this time for a proper reason. Unless kept under special atmospheric conditions, the linen wrapped around the bodies of the deceased would quickly gather mould whilst on their highway to disintegration and ending up as a mere pile of dust.

Indeed, I always had a fascination with morbidity. For example, I once stood alone in the Catecombe dei Cappuccini in the underground crypt of a church in Palermo. Although open to the public, I visited during the off-season, when there weren't any other tourists about. The whole place was silent except for a constant flapping of a metal trapdoor attached to an air vent, giving the catacomb an extra feeling of creepiness as the rows of long-dead faces stared down at any passing visitor. Then not to mention the subterranean Catacombes of Paris, where I walked alone through a corridor lined with countless femur bones and skulls. Oh, the joys of an independent vacationer!

Therefore, I was drawn to the Egyptian gallery of the afterlife. Among the coffins and mummies, both humans and animals, there was one of a well-preserved body of a "strong young man" - according to the commentary panel attached to the glass case enclosing the corpse. According to the archaeologists, the body, complete with internal organs and leathered skin, was estimated as 5,000 years old. Sounds amazing. But as a Bible scholar, I knew that this young man couldn't be as old as five millennia. Or else, he lived around 600 years before the Noachian Deluge! If, on the other hand, he lived about the time of Abraham, around 2,000 BC, then this dating would be entirely plausible. 

The exhibit of the deceased ancient Egyptian.

Like the Rosetta Stone downstairs, this exhibit attracted a larger crowd than all the surrounding magnificent artwork of ancestry. But, as I approached it, a feeling of sadness came over me. Although I question the dating of this young man, yet, the panel still dispensed a lot of useful information about this unnamed individual.

When the body was first discovered buried and preserved in dry sand, they also discovered a stab wound just below his left shoulder, and since there was no sign of healing, it was assumed that the stab wound led to his death. This sort of situation can certainly be verified medically. If true, then all sorts of questions are asked in my mind. Who was he? Did he provoke an argument leading to violence and received what he deserved? Or was he an innocent victim of a vicious perpetrator? Or did he die in battle? Was he a slave who, with or without deliberate intention, displeased his master? Or a victim of a fierce rivalry or jealousy? Although we now know that he suffered a violent death, if only he would speak, to tell me about his life and how he came to this. And to hear him confess his involvement in a fight or plead his innocence as a victim of hate.

Eventually, the crowd dispersed for a moment or two, and I was alone with him. It was then I crouched down to his level and spoke gentle, soft words to him, the wanting to comfort, to give him hope and assurance. If you think that I'm a little bit insane or addle-headed to be talking to a dead person, so be it. What I expressed was in my heart.

The feeling I had was sadness, a longing to know him, who he was, although there were indications of being fit, strong and healthy and good looking, I also pondered on how he would have felt in my presence. Would he have jelled to me as a potential new friend? Or take an instant dislike, perhaps thinking of me as a threat to his ego or wellbeing, a possible sexual pervert, or just wanting something? Or would he see me as one of those religious hypocrites who make sanctimonious acts to hide a greedy, insincere or even a lecherous heart?

He lived during Old Testament times when reconciliation to God through the Atonement made by Jesus Christ hadn't yet taken place, thus leaving him to prop up his hope on Ra and other ancient gods in a vain hope to receive their favours. Or like in modern times, he might have been so deluded by the hypocrisy of all Egyptian priests and clerics that he eventually led a life of atheism. 

Such questions will remain unanswered for the rest of my life. In an overall question, I ask:

Had this individual been alive now, or had I lived in his day, would we be good friends?

I would also ponder whether had he been alive during New Testament times or even today, how would he feel about Jesus Christ? Had he been positive about God, then wouldn't it be fair that he's now lost for all eternity just because he was born at the "wrong" time in history? Or, by having faith in the true God, would he have been another Abraham, Moses, or Job?

And so, as I crouch in front of the glass panel encasing this unnamed individual, I think back to the time when he was born, a newborn held in his mother's arms and suckling on her breast. I imagine him growing up and playing the Egyptian equivalent of street football or cricket with his young friends. Then going to school, maybe preparing for university or even called up to serve in the forces. Or he might have been born as a slave, a property of little worth and later disposed of by his unkind master, or even by another slave. And so, the list of possibilities goes on.

I value friendship greatly. Living in a fallen, sinful world brings many sorrows, but having friends that would lead to brotherly love through faith in Christ brings endless benefits. As surveys and polls suggest that a married man is more settled in himself than a singleton, and his own self-esteem rises with the knowledge of his wife's love for him and her devotion. Also, I have seen that a single man also benefits from a devoted friend or group of friends. Maybe that was why Jesus had not only set up his church, but he had to lay down his life for it to redeem his people, and then refer to them as his bride. God's love for the Church is strong and with intense devotion.

Therefore, having recently lost a very good friend of several years due to my own sinful emotions and doings, not only do I look upon this poor deceased individual on display in the museum, but I also reflect on my own shortcomings, admitting my sinful nature and acknowledging my desperate need for salvation through faith in the atonement made by the death, burial, and resurrection of Jesus Christ, this condemned Jew two millennia ago, but his love and forgiveness are equally effective now. No, I don't need to be reminded of my own shortcomings. I am already aware of them. What I do need is love and forgiveness from God, his imputed righteousness, and reparation of our broken friendship that only God can bring about - if we let him. 

The Most Glorious Gift.

Although the characters and circumstances here are fictitious, the story is based on various true incidences I have seen, heard and even read about in the past.

                                                                      ***

There were two friends, two men about the same age. One was married, the other single. The married one was Ted, the other, Doug. Ted was the married one. The two had known each other for several years. Then one day, Doug's church closed down due to a combined shrinking congregation and in deep financial debt, and the building where the main services were held went into administration.

Doug, who lived on his own, began to miss the Sunday corporate worship, and he began to feel lonely. One day, he phoned his mate Ted and asked whether he can come around to enjoy the company of his mate and his wife, Sandra, as Doug was also aware that both of his friend's daughters had already flown the nest. Their eldest daughter had just started a career up in Nottinghamshire, the other a student at Bristol University.

Doug was keen on both comedy and documentaries. And so, Doug began to call at Ted's home once a week for lunch and TV, whilst also visiting other churches with a hope of finding one that has permanent suitability.

Both liked to greet each other with a hug, and also to part with a hug too. And it was for this reason that, on one occasion, Ted assured his friend that despite such affection, he was not gay - his years of happy marriage to Sandra verifying this. Sometimes, the two mates went out together. Day trips to London were also common, both with and without Sandra. However, if one of the two boys needed to answer a call of nature at a public restroom, the other usually waited outside. Neither thought otherwise, except for those occasional moments when both had to meet their need.

Yet, Ted slowly began to worship Doug. This was out of admiration for his friend's academic qualities, including a doctorate. Ted was just the opposite. He failed at school and left education to enter the real world of manual work without any qualifications, much to the disappointment of his parents, who were ashamed of their comparatively dim son living in a neighbourhood full of bright kids.

In turn, Doug's high level of education made a deep impression on Ted's psyche, and he began to develop a fetish for Doug's bare arms, as he tends to wear a tee-shirt whenever the weather is mild. For weeks on end, the husband and father felt attracted towards his mate's sleeveless limbs and even stroked them whilst sitting at a table in a bar or restaurant. Doug seemed to enjoy the sensation.

Then, one day, Ted was becoming tired of what he thought was living a lie. Even in his wife's arms in bed, his spirit felt agitated, and he was unable to sleep properly. He knew that he had to confess to his friend what was going on in his mind. He felt that he couldn't go on like this. He then phoned and confessed to the fetish he felt for his friend's upper limbs.

The response was not what Ted had hoped for. What he would have wanted was Doug's sympathetic attitude expressed in a talk concluding in an agreement with a promise from Ted that he won't stroke his bicep anymore, and it would help if his mate wore a long-sleeved shirt or a jumper. But instead, his response was:

Thanks for your honesty. I won't be seeing you or Sandra anymore. And that was it. Ted then realised that Doug was sitting in Moses' seat. By heck, Ted then thought to himself: With Christians like Doug, along with others with similar attitudes representing the churches, no wonder atheism is spreading across this so-called "Christian country" as fast as mould spreads across stale bread!

Yet despite the shock, Ted felt deeply for his former friend. How he now regrets making the confession and how much he wishes to turn back the clock! Doug was the closest friend he has ever had, a mate who cared for him and had none of the snobbery or the arrogance that many well-educated men have over those not so well endowed academically. He was a far cry from many an Etonian, for example, whose privileged upbringing gave him that sense of entitlement - that attitude history has shown to be obnoxious. As a doctor, Doug was never like any of those posh people. And so, Ted sits there and looks around. How he wished that he simply kept his hands to himself and his mouth shut! 

But his conscience wouldn't allow it. Rather, he knew that even as a Christian, he was still accountable to God, and one day he will stand before the Bema Seat of Christ, a rostrum where rewards are given out to faithful believers. It will be no place to shed tears of regret. Hence, his initial confession.

In the nights following the loss of his friend, Ted began to have dreams of his relationship with Doug. The first one was of Doug acting with such hostility that Ted thought that he was about to be killed. A few nights later, another dream Ted had, was of Doug and himself becoming reconciled and the friendship resumes. He was disappointed when he woke up to reality.

With his wife's encouragement, it didn't take very long to re-acquaint to life without Doug visiting, even though he still miss his friend's weekly calls. As he sat and meditated, he knew that he wasn't a homosexual. Although he had a fetish for his friend's arms, that was it. He also knew that the very thought of a naked embrace with another man - any man - was repulsive enough never to engage in such activity, let alone share a bed!  

                                                                        ***

Yet, both Ted and Doug were true Christian believers. With Ted, did he commit a serious sin? I guess that would be up to him to decide. And perhaps it's exactly about this issue that I watched a YouTube video presented by a one-time Christian-turned-atheist. According to the unbeliever, religion binds a heavy burden of condemnation on those who may have such fetishes. In truth, they can't help feeling the way they do, but God will still judge them, nevertheless. Although some gays like to "live it up" - the vast majority would never have chosen to be that way. Had it been entirely up to them, most would have preferred to be "straight" - marry and raise a family. Furthermore, the rate of suicides committed by gay men had always been the highest among all other causes of suicide, according to what I once read. Indeed, given the choice, one doesn't choose to be gay.

But, according to the atheist's worldview, he is still condemned by God and by the Church, and therefore, he will spend eternity in Hell, even if he can't help feeling that way. It does make me wonder: of the two kinds of "sexual deviation" having a fetish for another man but hardly making any form of physical contact or a man who sleeps with other women, or even with a prostitute? Is one more acceptable to other Christians than the other, and thus, have a better chance for salvation?

And so it brings me to ask about Ted and Doug. If Ted, say, out on a gardening or landscaping job, finds the lady of the house attractive and she too likes him, and the two end up in bed, how would Doug react? Would he stay away and end the friendship with Ted? Or would he give him a stern telling off, but decide to continue with the friendship? Or even merely encourage him that we all have weaknesses and these things happen - with reassurance that the church will cover for him?

And so, the debate goes on both within and without the church - campaigns against gay marriage, even a Court case over whether to bake a cake for a homosexual couple, is it right to be friends and associate with a gay person? Is it right for anyone to divorce and remarry? Will he who marries a divorced woman suffer God's judgement? 

And so, the debate is continually thrown back and forth across the table, with fundamental Christians sitting on one side and liberals sitting on the opposite side, the nominal onlooker walks away feeling confused, even discontented, and the atheist hardens his heart as he embraces Darwinism with a greater sense of enthusiasm. 

And so, in his letter to the church in Rome, Paul the Apostle lists a whole plethora of sins, including "men burning with lust towards other men and reaping in their bodies (STD, AIDS etc.) the consequence of their actions" - Romans 1:27. Surely, not quite like Ted's mere fetish for Doug's arms! Or is it?

Then, further on in his letter, Paul quotes Genesis 15:6 -

Abraham believed in the Lord and it was credited to him as righteousness.

This single line is, to my opinion, the most powerful verse in the entire Bible. In his letter to Rome, Paul devotes three full chapters to that quote. He mentions it again in his letter to the churches in Galatia, and James also uses the same quote in his general letter to all Jewish Christians everywhere. In Paul's other letters, especially to the church in Ephesus, further implications of those words can be read.

Most theologians call this doctrine, Justification by Faith. I like to call it Imputed Righteousness - an answer to the Roman Catholic soteriology of Infused Righteousness, where salvation is a gradual process of faith combined with the believer's works needed to get to Heaven. Since I was born a Catholic and thus, fully able to make comparisons, I can see that the whole letter to the Romans is the answer to the future Roman Catholic Church which the Holy Spirit foreknew beforehand of its rise.

In the forensic sense, Imputed Righteousness is to be declared righteous by God the Judge without the need of a single work from the believer. It literally means that God the Father sees the believer as equally righteous and in the same light as his own Son, Jesus Christ. As Paul writes:-

However, to the man who does not work but trusts God who justifies the wicked, his faith is credited as righteousness. Romans 4:5. 

Imputed righteousness is a free gift from God given to the sinner by grace. It cannot be earned, neither is it for sale. Rather, it's a free gift given to everyone who believes that Jesus of Nazareth died on the cross to make atonement, was buried, and three days later, he rose physically from the dead, thus proving that this Jesus is the Christ, the Son of God.

Therefore, is Doug doing the right thing by abstaining from Ted's presence? If Ted is a true believer, and I take it that he is, then Doug has no right to keep his distance from him. Rather, Doug should recognise that Ted has his own set of weaknesses, for whom Christ died to atone and to make an effort to reconcile and restore the friendship. And that means not counting any of his shortcomings against him. Likewise, Ted should also recognise Doug being in Christ and pay him due respect by vowing not to stroke his arms anymore.

The Resurrected Christ, the base for our justification.

Imputed Righteousness, Justification by Faith, Forensic Acquittal, Eternal Security, Once Saved Always Saved, Regeneration, a New Birth, Adoption into God's Family - whatever you want to call it, it all means one thing - salvation is given as a free gift through grace. Such a wonderful gift does not encourage the believer to sin more, rather it persuades the believer not to sin, mainly out of love for both God and his brother.

But, being human, I'm convinced that there is a bit of Ted and Doug in all of us, to a greater or lesser level. The temptation to fulfil a curiosity is never far away, sitting on Moses' seat isn't far from us, either. As if you see another sinner who appears black, you would feel as if you're white, even if you're actually grey.

Unfortunately, that was how Doug saw himself when he discovered Ted's true colours.

The Value of Friendship, and Moralism.

In the Old Testament section of the Bible, there is a story of two young men, David and Jonathan, whose friendship had become the flagship of what companionship should be like, a yardstick for all other relationships to look upon and emulate.

David and Jonathan.

Jonathan was the son of King Saul, the first king of Israel whom God appointed with the anointing of oil by the seer, Samuel. One day, God instructed Saul through the mouth of Samuel to slay all the Amalekites - men, women, adolescents, children, and infants - and all their livestock - their sheep, cattle, donkeys, camels, and any other domesticated beast which were counted as their property.

Just to diverge here, this is a prime example of a story that would give the atheist a good reason to discredit the historicity of the Bible and to deny the existence of "a loving, benevolent, caring God." Why would God want to snuff out the lives of a non-Jewish nation, especially children? This is the question put out by such unbelievers daily, especially through YouTube, and watched by millions. And I feel my spirit grieve as the Bible is ridiculed on a national basis. And little wonder why we are in the present political, health and economic mess? Therefore, I'll go into some detail here.

According to 1 Samuel 15:2, the Amalekites were to be punished for attempting to wipe out Israel from the land just after crossing the Red Sea during their exodus from Egypt, as recorded in Exodus 17:8-16. Then in verse 16 itself, God promises to be at war with the Amalekites into the future, from generation to generation.

With such a nature of the story, it's little wonder that this is throwing fuel into the atheist's fire! When a "loving, benevolent, caring God" orders the destruction of men, women, children and infants, the latter having no idea of their nation's history and therefore, had no part in a battle that had taken place hundreds of years before any of them were born, I can't help but step back in shock! Yet, God still pronounced them guilty - guilty of their attempt to annihilate the ancient Israelites centuries earlier. How could a "loving, benevolent, caring God" do a thing like that?

With the added instruction to slay all their livestock - domesticated animals owned by the Amalekites in the same way as a modern farmer would keep sheep and cattle - why they too must pay for the sins of their long-gone human owners, it's a mystery to anyone who has an open mind. As with anyone with some rational thinking, this was one of several issues I had to wrestle with when reading the Bible. As with the issue with the bottles as discussed in my last blog, along with Balaam the prophet and the talking donkey (Numbers 22:21-41) and how a shadow on a sundial managed to move backwards (2 Kings 20:1-11) - and then I wonder why an Amalekite child was slain in mass bloodshed while, more than a thousand years later, Jesus blessed little children and declared that the Kingdom of God was theirs.

Indeed, by first sight, the atheist and the sceptic would have a field day! This, along with how a barge the size of Noah's ark can hold all the species of land animals that had ever existed, dinosaurs included, would make me embarrassed to be a Christian, would it not? Especially when both Jesus Christ and the Apostles had endorsed the historicity of such events. And then the cartoon version of Noah's Ark is presented looking like a rather skimpy bathtub incapable of carrying any large number of beasts.

Going back to the Amalekites, why did God have such an issue with them? What was it about them that had made the Almighty decide to terminate their existence at the hands of King Saul?

There is a need to go back to the beginning. According to Genesis 36:12, the father of the Amalekite nation was Amalek, the grandson of Esau. Esau was the twin brother of Jacob (renamed Israel) and grandsons of Abraham. Esau, who was the firstborn of the two brothers, was also the favourite son of his father Isaac, and he wanted to give his older son a special blessing. But Isaac's wife and mother of the boys, Rebekah, had a preference for Jacob, and she wanted him blessed instead of Esau. By using deception, Jacob was able to fool his elderly father who was already blind through age. In Esau's absence, Jacob stole both Esau's birthright and blessing. Furious with rage after finding out that his younger brother had stolen the blessing originally intended for him, he set his mind to kill him after the death of their father.

Rebekah, sensing the emergency, sent her favourite son to exile from his own family, to live with his uncle Laban, several days journey away. At his uncle's tent, Jacob married both of Laban's daughters, Leah and Rachel, and between them, along with their concubines, he fathered twelve sons who grew up to be the heads of twelve tribes of Israel. Meanwhile, Esau had children by three wives, and one of them became the grandmother of Amalek, whose descendants were an offshoot from the fledgling nation of Edom, of which Esau was the founding father.

It was the Amalekites who were most determined to destroy Israel in revenge for Isaac's blessing stolen from them. Being a stronger warrior people, they posed a real threat to Israel. As soon as the Israelites had crossed the Red Sea on their way to the Promised Land, they were immediately attacked by the Amalekites. It took a miracle of God through Moses for Israel to finally defeat Amalek.

Noah's Ark is brought to ridicule by atheists.

And so, with Amalek defeated under the hand of King Saul after centuries of invasion and attack, the Hebrew monarch approaches Samuel with a greeting, expecting praise from the seer. When instead, the king was rebuked for keeping some of the animals for sacrifice, he was shocked, and even more so after receiving news that he and his son Jonathan were rejected from founding Israel's royal dynasty.

Why have I got into so much detail on Israel's hostile relationship with Amalek? To show that the general historic value recorded in the Bible is well within credibility, thus, an answer to the atheist and the sceptic's mockery, so widely broadcast on the Internet. The Bible reveals what human nature is like, and details both friendship and enmity with an equal realistic scope, so true to life today. Also, as one who loves Israel, having spent up to 22 weeks of my life in the Holy Land, I hope this may provide a plausible answer to the atheist's scepticism and mockery. And so, a strong bond exists between a royal prince and a shepherd's son.

I have read that the friendship between David and Jonathan could be regarded as a bromance. A bromance is an asexual but strong friendship between two people of the same gender. Both partners are heterosexual, with Jonathan quite likely already married and having a son, Mephibosheth.

As the Bible also says that the friendship between two or more men is like the sweet fragrance of the oil which flows down Aaron's head. A poetic way of saying that friendship is pleasing to God. However, during my younger days of the 1970s, all I had to do was to visit the sauna suite at our local leisure centre, and it's more than likely that I exit the building with someone I had befriended whilst bathed. And he would offer me a lift home which was only a short distance away. With such kindness taken into consideration, I felt that it was right to invite him into my apartment for coffee and a chat. 

The friendship between us may last for several weeks, even months. Then, one evening, he drops a hint that he's interested in those bits and pieces beneath my waistline and hidden by my trousers. Despite my own gullibility coming from innocence, I still insisted that I wasn't interested, and that ended the friendship.

In the 1970s in particular, that sort of approach occurred frequently. And not only locally, but they occurred whilst backpacking Italy in 1975, Israel in 1976, and the USA during both 1977 and 1978. And right throughout those occasions, I was already a Christian. However, my lack of interest in sex wasn't solely due to Christian convictions, as I was still very young in the faith. Rather it was more of a lack of desire, even a sense of disgust.

But even as a Christian, I still valued their friendships, as far as I was concerned, they were still human beings, people still loved by God and in need of his grace and forgiveness. In this mode of thinking, I would have still accepted their offer of friendship, such as chatting over coffee, a walk in the park, visiting a pub - whatever - as long as we stayed out of the bedroom. Such a friendship, in my mind, could have still flourished.

One area which I have come to learn by experience, and it's being a moralist. This means a lack of wrongdoing coupled with a judgemental attitude and a complete lack of love and forgiveness. And experience had taught me that a moralist is very much tied with a church-goer. To see this in practice, let's suppose that I am a moralist. But first, I'll just reiterate what had happened when I refused any sexual advance. It was the other person making the advance, and not me, who ended the friendship by walking out of the front door in a huff, but with no angry or sad words spoken. Had he apologised, chances were that I would have forgiven him, and asked him not to try that again, and had he agreed, continued with the friendship, maybe with the hope of gradually winning him to Christ.

But if I was a moralist, chances were that I would have thrown him out of my apartment (or stormed out, had that happened at his home) and angrily distance myself from him, with me insisting that our friendship is over. I would have had a sense of self-righteousness, to be glad that I'm not that way inclined like he is, and thus more deserving of heaven than he could ever be. Whilst thanking God that I'm not that way inclined, there is absolutely no love, no forgiveness, he becomes an object of disdain, to be ignored and avoided. If ever he's seen walking into a church meeting, I would have made sure that I was sitting at the far side of the room, and preferably, way behind him. And as a final coup de gras, I would not want him to come to Christ and be saved. After all, why should he go to heaven if I never had such perverse desires?

With an attitude like that, it's no wonder that in the New Testament, three witnesses testified against the moral-bound Pharisees and members of the Jewish Sanhedrin. The three were John the Baptist, Jesus Christ, and Stephen. Both John and Jesus referred to them as a brood of vipers, while Stephen referred to them as stiff-necked. Jesus explains why they are referred to as such:-

Woe to you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! You tithe mint, dill and cumin, and yet you have neglected the weightier matters of the law - justice, mercy and faithfulness...Matthew 23:23.

Dill, tithed in Christ's day.

As a moralist, I would have paid special attention to attending prayer meetings, concentrated on tithing, and perhaps even spent time straightening my tie! Whether I tithed on a weekly or monthly basis, chances were I would have felt a sense of self-satisfaction, having met the basic requirements of "giving to the Lord." But any thought of aiding financially to the pervert who tried it on me would have sent shivers down my spine. Unless he reforms, no way would I give him any money to help him out. As far as I'm aware, he's a sinner and therefore he deserves what he's going through!

What then? Is doing the right thing a bad idea? No, it isn't bad in itself. If someone wants to tithe, then let him tithe, that's a good thing. But he should never judge anyone who doesn't tithe regularly, or not tithe at all. Likewise, it was fine for me to refuse any sexual approach. It was the right thing to do. But to shut him out without any forgiveness or even giving advice would be wrong. It could even drive the other person to suicide.

Finally, what would Jesus have done had he been approached by a homosexual? Condemn him to hell? Most unlikely. Rather, He would have told him to follow Him with a promise that He'll make him a fisher of men in a much better way!