A Shocking Statistic.

It was during the week slotted in between Christmas Day and New Year's Day a few years ago when Alex and I decided to kill time with a day trip to London. This was in the middle of the Christmas season, with factories, businesses, and administration offices closed for up to twelve days altogether, especially if Christmas Day falls on a Thursday. This, together with New Year's Day also a statutory holiday, such a long break had always been criticised by Right-Wing-leaning newspapers "for being out of touch with the rest of Europe who are all hard at work soon after Christmas". And so, tired-looking tinsel, Christmas trees shedding its needles onto the floor around it, and coloured lights with a blinkering bulb or two, all up on both private and public display, reminding us all what time of the year it was.  

Therefore it was no surprise that our train was diverted onto another route as a result of holiday engineering works shutting down our line within the Greater London area. Our train came to an unexpected halt somewhere between Kingston-upon-Thames and Wimbledon stations. Yes Wimbledon, the world famous venue for the All-England Lawn Tennis Club with its annual international Summer tournament, but at this rather bleak Winter time, all courts shut down to a near off-season dereliction. We just sat in the train carriage, all of us, in typical British infinite patience. The minutes added up and still not a single stir from any of the passengers.

Then, probably after thirty minutes gazing at the grass bank outside the carriage window, the intercom crackled into life:

We apologise for the delay. This is due to a personal incident at Wimbledon.

I then muttered to my wife,

A personal incident? A man decides to top himself, causing inconvenience to everyone else.

Although such a statement made in an otherwise silent carriage may sound insensitive, it was due to the frustration caused by the resulting delay eclipsing any feelings of compassion I should have felt for this unknown fellow. Still the minutes ticked away until more than an hour at that same spot, at last the train started on its crawl towards London Waterloo.

This was by no means unique. Only a couple of months earlier, the whole of the Great Western express line from Reading to London Paddington was suspended due to a same kind of incident - "man hit by a train" - which meant that passengers for the Great Western instead boarded our much slower Southwest service to Waterloo, very much like sardines squeezed into a delayed subway train during the morning rush-hour. And I was on board that train to witness it all. With further news of rail-side suicides recurring throughout the ensuing weeks, I could not help asking what is the matter with modern life here in the UK during peace time. In 2015, for example, there were 6,122 recorded suicides in the UK alone, according to Internet data. That is nearly seventeen deaths per day.

But even if 6,122 self-inflicting deaths in a year looks high, it becomes minuscule when up to 300,000 people terminate their jobs in a year due to depression or mental illness. That is about 822 cases a day here in the UK. And that was after being bombarded with this fact among endless broadcasting about mental illness, and the inability of the National Health Service to deal with it.

Mental illness? To be honest, for one already in his seventh decade of life, the term is relatively new in my vocabulary. In my younger days I cannot recall hearing the expression, mental illness. Depression, yes. That word has been around for a long time, and was often referred to what we now call unsettled weather, an area of low pressure. But it also meant a state of low, negative feelings, persistent sadness, often lethargic at work and elsewhere, and a lack of self worth. A problem that has been with us since the dawn of history. But to hear of mental illness being behind up to 300,000 quitting their jobs in a single year in the UK alone, I find astonishing! And not to mention many more who are depressed yet do not quit their jobs.

As far as I'm aware, the workplace is where one earns his living by satisfying his employer. Or at least that was what I did between the years 1968-1980 before setting out on my own. And with the emphasis on education, education, education, a mantra recited by former Labour Prime Minister Tony Blair throughout the turn of the Millennium, I have gotten round to believing that good old manual work, which sustained me adequately for nearly half a century, was looked upon as something dishonourable. I have to be honest here. For decades I had a wish to work in an office. To prance around in suit and tie, showing the world how successful I was, and of course - pleasing to my parents. It was never to be. But that did not make me throw in the towel and quit getting my hands dirty. And that goes back to the days soon after leaving school, and never allowed to forget that I was small fry, pushing a broom from eight in the morning, and subject to being teased and be the receiving end of a torrent of smut.

But I do find this huge number of quitters rather shocking. I get the impression that the majority of quitters were office staff. I could be wrong of course. Let's face it, I cannot see myself at a job working for an employer outdoors. Whether its on road works, railway engineering works, on a building site, or refuse collection, no - I must admit - I wouldn't be happy in such occupations, especially in the Winter, shivering under a biting wind or getting soaked in the rain, regardless of waterproofs. At least as one self employed, I was in full control of the situation, and successfully managed 35 years of window cleaning, including getting my hands blue in the freezing cold bucket of dirty water, and a biting northerly wind at a housing estate resembling more of a ghost town than a living community. Although on days like these I might have on occasions gone home early, yet I had never quit before the time.

And then as one using his hands to earn a living, there always has been "the grass is greener on the other side" ethic when it comes to imagining office work. Tales of bullying bosses, unseemly department managers and even traitorous colleagues constantly trickle through the Media, but that has never convinced me on what the office atmosphere is really like from the perspective of a manual labourer - until the recent news. The world of work does not look to be so rosy for the better educated than I have always perceived. 

Yes, I am amazed, really amazed. As I have always perceived, to throw in the towel was something the British would never do, being as stoic as their reputation demands. I was surprised indeed. Has society changed that much since the late sixties when I entered the world of work at the deep end? And all this talk about our "Millennial Generation" fresh out of university and reputed as spineless, as often reported, who cannot take a mild rebuke from the supervisor without running off like a spoilt child, and then demand "equal rights" on the same level as the more experienced seniors. Hmm. Try demanding that when I was a skinny teenage runt!

It was while these news bulletins of mental illness were filtering through the TV into our lounge when I came across a poster in Facebook with a growing thread of comments growing underneath it. The forum is set to public, so anyone on Facebook can see it. The opening poster asks a question whether love is conditional or unconditional, that is, between man and woman, or even on religious, gender, racial, or social norms. Typically, I emphasised the unconditional love of God, especially to the Christian believer, with the assurance of Eternal Security. It didn't take long for a friend of mine, an Arminian, to discuss his point of view for a forfeitable salvation based on the faithfulness of the believer rather than on the grace of God. It was an interesting discussion, without any falling out with each other (phew!) But if there is a pandemic of mental illness sweeping this country (or any country, worldwide) then there is this desperate need for the unconditional love of God to be realised.

The near-universal opinion of mankind is that if there is a God, whatever form he might take, then there will always be a degree of lifelong faithfulness needed to get into his good books. Or in other words, to earn, or at least play our side of the deal in order to achieve eternal life, whether its on earth, in heaven, paradise, or some form of eastern nirvana. The world's salvation demands some form of human co-operation. That is the general opinion of the vast majority of mankind, the atheist included. Then there is the free gift of eternal life given by God to the believer through grace alone, without any effort from the believer. And once gotten, it can never be forfeited or lost. Otherwise it would not be a free gift at all, but probational - or a "maybe salvation" - taken away or lost if the believer fails to live up to expectations. 

The general rejection of God by the masses may be rooted in this idea of a "maybe salvation". Such may inspire fear of eternal punishment, and even creating hostility towards God, but I tend to prefer that this "maybe salvation" leads to apathy - one couldn't care less, and stays away from what they believe is organised religion, with their thinking that this is the way to appease a fickle God - if such an entity exists - then it is all a waste of time. Why not engage in Science, and especially Darwinism, now held as absolute proof of the reality of Science against false myth of religion with its fickle God who is too demanding, along with a fairy tale book containing stories of a talking snake, a rebuking donkey, and records of turning sticks into snakes, a worldwide flood, and other silly stuff of religious mythology.

Which is all a smack in the face against the real reason why we are here. We are not the product of evolution together with a large dollop of good luck. Rather, we are here to partake in the glorious love already shared between Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. If instead we are suffering a pandemic of mental illness, then something must be seriously wrong. Just like hunger, I guess. If the lack of food and nutrition result in illness and death through starvation, then mental illness, rather than caused by being too stressful at work, may indicate that we are not all there - there is something missing - and that is complete union with our Creator and Redeemer given freely through grace alone.

God has created us to enjoy in our partaking of his love. We are designed to be one in Him, living eternally in his presence. Having rebelled in Adam, and therefore inheriting a sinful nature, there is absolutely nothing we can do in ourselves to get back to God. Adam and Eve tried by sewing fig leaves together to make aprons. Religion by self-effort. It turned out to be so useless that God totally ignored these garments without even an acknowledgement. Instead, the blood of an animal had to be shed in order to clothe them. It was the whole work of God, without any of their effort. This was the forerunner of the Atonement made by Jesus Christ.

We cannot earn our salvation. Therefore we cannot lose our salvation either. We cannot earn, we cannot lose. The receiving of salvation is through God's grace alone. It's a free gift entirely on Christ's expense, there is nothing we can add to it. But such wonderful truth is veiled from all unbelievers, therefore attributing their origins from evolution instead of a Creator. Then we are aghast when reports of a mental illness pandemic is reported. What we need is not a better work environment. What we desperately need is the reality of the unconditional love of God. 

A VERY Big Hole-In-One!

Games was something dreaded rather than anticipated at school. Of course, when I first heard about Games as a first-year fresher approaching his twelfth birthday, I envisioned something akin to Snakes and Ladders, Ludo, Checkers, or Chess. Or heaven forbid, Monopoly, which exercises greed rather than mind or muscle. Or as school being an institution for learning - Trivia Pursuit (Genius, of course), or Scrabble. But no, the period bearing the title Games on the day's timetable had no bearing on the numerous board games I was becoming familiar with. Rather it was to do with football (Association) or rugby during the Autumn and Spring terms, and cricket or athletics during the Summer term.

"Monopoly, which exercises greed rather than mind or muscle." 

In typical sixties style, all this exposes our weaknesses in the boy's changing room. The school uniform consisting of black blazer and trousers, grey shirt and of course, a striped tie, nicely conceals a moment of forgetfulness when a boy fails to bring in his kit without a proper reason. So in full view of us all, he was forced to bend over to receive a designated number of whacks across his buttocks from the sole of a size twelve plimsoll. If he was a first year, then one single whack. Two for a second year pupil, three for a third year, and so on. I have watched quite a number of this kind of corporal punishment throughout my entire four-year stint at secondary education. Some boys took the punishment with such stoicism, that all they did was wince slightly as the plimsoll flew through the air with full might. Then after it was over, the boy returned to his bench without further ado. By contrast, I recall at least one boy who burst into tears and begged for a reprieve before the third stroke landed.

And to add to this sorrowful state of affairs, I recall witnessing a very unfortunate incident at the boy's changing room at the master's absence, when one rather chubby fellow burst into tears as a result of being a recipient of ferocious teasing by other pupils nearby. Ferocious teasing? It was more downright mental cruelty, capable of destroying any sense of self-worth, and, to my mind, opening the likelihood of suicide. Let's put it this way. As all across Italy, found in every home, the use of the bidet would have spared anyone from such dreadful embarrassment. The poor lad wept as his token of privacy was thrown across one end of the room to the other to the delirious laughter of his oppressors. All I could do was sit nearby and watch, refusing to be involved.

But I doubt if anyone had ever realised the humility I felt every time it was left for the two team captains to select their own players, whether in football or rugby. I was always left on the shelf, ready for the unfortunate captain whose lot fell to include me in his team. Let's face it, I was a letdown to the team and as a consequence, became a victim of verbal bullying, and close to being physical as well. As physical prowess was the yardstick for peer respect, the ideal, popular pupil always excelled in team sports. Even if he had never played that particular game before, just give him a ball and a set of rules, and he will always produce.

It is from these schooldays experience that I began to realise what it takes to be a good Englishman. If you are fortunate enough to be born with brains, then life can be a fruitcake, especially in long haul travel, property ownership, quality of lifestyle, smart dress at work, greater respect from society - and a better chance for church leadership. But fail at school? Then physical prowess, a good team player, even having a magnificent boxing skill, patriotic, military service and devotion to a life of manual or skilled labour may engender a degree of respect as a true English bulldog, but responsibilities such as church leadership of any level will always be far less likely. The issue was, I was neither. Certainly not physical prowess, hopeless in team sports, with only one or two I can refer as friends, and indeed, not much to show. Except for endurance. 

As such, I found long distance cycling a source of moral and physical strength. It was after I was freed from the wretched school tie and its culture, that I eventually began to bloom. But I believe that this was connected to something which was totally life-changing - to experience a rebirth through faith in Jesus Christ as Saviour less than five years after leaving school. Before this experience, I was not all there. Immediately after, however, I was all there, even if there will be some time before the fruits of such a transformation will become manifest.

But I did not have to wait long before such fruits began to show. Because reading and writing was something I did enjoy to a certain level, I found such wonderful benefit in reading the Bible. Over time, I discovered that reading the Bible has raised my level of intelligence which seems to uphold the view that the Bible was written under divine inspiration. And generated more faith. And also the enjoyment of physical endurance. Long distance cycling is one of them. Some trips were purely for tourism, which involved riding to faraway places and then finding a bed at a hotel or hostel. Others were fast burn-ups, usually done locally, covering up to thirty miles 48 km, starting and finishing at home, or even at church. Then to add a dip and a trot, I became involved in the Triathlon between the years of 1986-1992.

Although I was totally hopeless in team games at school, I was never averse to sport as a whole. It is so fortunate that it comes with such a wide spectrum, and there are beautiful colours within this spectrum which, although never advocated on the school curriculum, had highlighted what I was better at, the enjoyment gotten from these has given me such a morale boost, something so unfortunate in never having attained at school. But the fear in sporting failure having remained ever since. One good example of this was around 1980, give or take, when a group of us from my previous church went out for a picnic. A voluntary game of football was played among us menfolk. I joined in, and although I have made an effort to contribute, I was still fearful of any reprimand that would have come my way. But no reprimand was thrown at me, much to my surprise. Instead, I felt accepted, and even surprised one of the Elders for participating in the game, which he had already perceived as not being part of my natural character. It was this that got me wondering whether there is a big difference in culture between school and church.

Weeks turns into months and months into years. After job redundancy in 1979, I started up my own business. Even after then I have kept long-distance cycling active for a good number of years. I then travelled the world over the next few years, sleeping in backpacker's hostels far and wide. Eventually I married and became a father. More importantly, I settled at my present church fellowship in Ascot, my spiritual home, where an active men's social had taken off during the last couple of years. Such men's socials are an excellent idea, mainly to promote stronger fellowship between us who by nature are very self-reserved and often cliquey, within the church as well as outside the church. Starting some years earlier with men's breakfast on a Saturday morning every six weeks, the midweek evening Curry Club at a local Tandoori also started up, much to the annoyance of my dearly beloved. Because of this, I have nicknamed this The Smelly Breath Night!

With a new administrator, the men's social has expanded to include an evening's trip to a brewery, at another occasion a private barbecue and sauna. Being such a fan of the sauna, indeed I was the first to step inside. Then there was earlier this week, after responding to an invitation, for golf. I thought, golf? I tried playing golf with some friends a couple of decades earlier. I was so bad that even if I stood directly over the hole and dropped the ball, I would still miss. Really, the idea of golf between two teams of men did not exactly inspire anticipation, but nevertheless, I had accepted the email invitation as soon as it was posted. It was because I was all for promoting closer fellowship, edification, and godliness among ourselves, rather than any excitement over a golf course, that I made up my mind to participate.

The original booking was for twelve of us, with eleven of us showing up. I was very impressed with the venue when we arrived there. It wasn't long that I discovered that this amenity, known as the Surrey Top-Golf, had no resemblance to the traditional golf course. Instead, it was a large field which within were set several large circular shallow pits, some more than twenty metres across. The idea was to get as many "hole-in-one" strikes from a stationary position under a heated shelter. It was a facility built on the latest technology. Each player had a set of golf balls, each with a chip inside with the player's name programmed into it. When the ball fell into any one of these pits, a number of points was scored. The chip within each ball sent the message to the computer displaying our names and scorecard.

Top-Golf, Surrey

Despite such huge holes, I still managed to miss more than scored. And I was not the only one. Far from it! Because since it was already dark by the time we arrived, the floodlights illuminated thousands of golf balls glistening in the drizzle across the field, none having ended up where they should be. And throughout the evening I added more to the glistening white forest. But was I met with disapproval from any in the team? Far from it. Rather, when one of our members realised that I was holding the club the wrong way, he gently offered to show me how the stick should be held. After this, my scoring rate dramatically improved. But after two games which between them took longer than we anticipated, I still came bottom, on an equal level with another player. But no feeling of rejection, no rebuttal, no let down. Instead we all had great fun. 

And that is what I believe the Kingdom of God is about. Love, peace and joy in the Holy Spirit. Any competition taken with a sense of lightheartedness, and those who are weak, as I was, to be supported and if necessary, redirected. I could not think of anything more dynamically opposite from our school culture half a century earlier. That was why I detailed the embarrassing episode with the poor chubby pupil at the gym changing room. Such dreadful action by his contemporaries can only lead to sorrow and death. And the memory of such an episode could remain throughout life, with any thoughts on self-worth permanently damaged, unless helped along over the years by his naturally charismatic temperament. In addition, the constant threat of corporal punishment hanging over our heads has made weaker team players such as myself more prone to dislike team sports. This, along with bullying for letting the side down, really, without Christ in my life to strengthen me, I would have been left with two choices. One was to sink into despair to the point of developing agoraphobia, maybe even feeling suicidal. The other choice was the one I had taken, to try and make good of a bad situation.

One example was not long before leaving school in 1968. It was a games lesson out in the field and we were playing football. Hardly the one ever to kick the ball, on this occasion a stray kick from another player brought the ball to where I was standing. So what was the object of football? To score goals, wasn't it? So after a little hesitation, I gave the ball a hard kick towards the goal. It went in. For the first time ever I have scored for our team. I felt ten feet tall and very ecstatic for the rest of the day. Not long after, I made another effort to score at an indoor five-a-side game. Unfortunately, my shot was this time well caught by the goalkeeper. Such opportunities had never occurred again. But the report I took home to my parents read this, as I have never forgotten it:

Frank has made some great efforts this term: Standard below average.

And that was written by our plimsoll-wielding P.E. master, who seemed to be lately pleased with me. Perhaps he'll make an English bulldog out of me yet. Then maybe not. Standard below average. That is on physical education. It would take nothing short of a miracle to change that. And I believe that faith in Christ did just that. For I did have a potential ability which was not manifest at school - long distance and fast cycling which later evolved into Triathlon competition, with good results.

For the Kingdom of God is not about meat and drink (nor sporting excellence) but righteousness and peace and joy in the Holy Spirit.

Romans 14:17.

That was how our group at Top-Golf behaved last week. Peaceful, joyful, Life building, edifying, supporting. It was, in a sense, a good taste of Heaven. And furthermore, such would kill off any concept that church life is about living hermetically like monks, unrealistically cut off totally from the world. Church life is nothing like that. Neither should believers be perceived as "holier than thou" with a self-righteous, judgemental attitude towards those who disagree with them. Unfortunately, I know several of them who are just like that, even from another church. Neither should true Christians be so self-reserved and unemotional to the point of being cold of heart. This kind of attitude may be characteristically English, but it has no part in the Kingdom of God. It is also unfortunate that I know quite a number of men, especially of my age, who live out such attitude, not all in our church though.

"Perhaps he'll make an English bulldog out of me yet."

These are fellows I knew as far back as 1978. One or two were excellent football players, and actually played weekly in a team representing their church at a local league. I was involved with this club myself, but not as a football player.

These men, along with their wives and children are all well educated, professional men now reaching retirement age. But there will always be times when I wish they would dump both their religion and their patriotic pride and allow the love of Christ through the Holy Spirit shine out freely from their hearts, especially towards people who are different to them. Then they would score a real hole-in-one.

Should I Be Angry At This?

It was a typical working day probably around February or March of 2006. It wasn't the ideal day for cleaning windows, but such was still within the realm of possibility. So as I carried the ladders past a cordoned off trench in the middle of a sidewalk at a quiet, predominantly middle class housing estate, to knock on the door of one particular small two-bedroom house, which was occupied by an elderly gentleman, perhaps old enough to be my father, and recently widowed.

Whether he fought in the War or not, I had never asked. But had he not been old enough for combat, then it was certain that he had to engage in Conscription, to partake in National Service until it was gradually abolished by 1963 under Tory Prime Minister Harold Macmillan's administration. 

So on that particular afternoon, as he unlocked the rear gate to allow me into his back garden, he then questioned whether it was worthy to have his windows cleaned on such "atrocious weather". This sort of talk always winds me up, thus expressing his reluctance to part with a few pounds sterling, a small payment compared with fees collected from larger properties, yet was still to play its role in keeping a roof over our heads, all utility bills paid, and keeping us fed and clothed. 

I held out my hands into the air directly in front of me, where there has been light drizzle, on and off, throughout this calm and mild Winter's day. I then responded:
Atrocious weather? This? Atrocious weather? When a storm was powerful enough to wipe a city off the map, then that is atrocious weather!

The elderly gentleman knew exactly what I was on about without the need to explain. I was referring to Hurricane Katrina, which did much damage to New Orleans just a few months earlier, towards the end of August of 2005. As news of such disaster was still fresh on our minds, the client relented without a word and I was left to clean his windows without further ado as he retreated into his house.

It was a month later, when I approached his house again. Although this time he left the subject of the weather well and truly alone, whilst he was with me in his back garden, he launched a tirade about the trench at the sidewalk nearby. It was still there, cordoned off and unattended, with rainwater accumulating until fairly flooded, and therefore giving an expression of a shoddy job left to neglect. When he asked for my opinion, I answered halfheartedly that this was the British for us. He did not say a word as he retreated into his house. Although often is truth hidden in jest, it became apparent that the answer I gave him had hit a nerve. Because at the following month, which by then the trench was refilled, he dismissed me as his window cleaner. And I'm convinced that by mocking the British culture may have played a major role in the termination.

I wonder how someone like him can be so thin-skinned and touchy. I would have thought that with such longevity, with military service thrown in, such a fellow would have been tough as old nails, with day-today living making his skin as thick as a rhino's, and as I expected, to laugh with me at the intended joke. Instead, he felt hurt. I had no other option than to see him as one of many Brits whose mode of transport would be paralysed by a half-inch (1 cm) layer of snow covering the road surface, and therefore gripped with nationwide panic. 

It was more recently that a report of a huge sinkhole at a main street of a Japanese city came to light. But what was so remarkable was that this huge sinkhole, which stretched right across the entire street, was completely repaired after just a week. The street was as if nothing had occurred at that spot, and traffic was flowing over it as easily as it always had. Perhaps the contrast in administration between this Japanese street and the trench at a nearby housing estate might have been the reason for the sense of inferior complex felt by the gentleman when it came to cultural comparison and patriotic matters.

Japanese sinkhole - repaired in a week.

A closer look at the street sinkhole.

He would have been the one desiring to see British efficiency, not only over the neglect and long delays in refilling a small trench, but in other matters such as repairing the many potholes peppering our roads and causing distress on car tyres and suspension systems alike, causing the owner to fork out expenses in nuisance but necessary repairs. And sticking with cars, it does look as though as a cyclist, I can be a threat to the egos of some car drivers. There are not a few times when a driver suddenly revs up his engine close by and roars off with his tyres screeching. If there is any truth in this, then how could the presence of a cyclist threaten the ego of a car owner to the extent of demonstrating his power? The only plausible theory I can think of is the rider's potential fitness, naturally gotten by regular riding, and without the need to pay road tax - despite the motorist being totally unaware that the Road Tax was abolished in 1937 and was replaced by Vehicle Excise Duty, which is a tax on motor vehicles which, like the Income Tax, goes into the General Treasury, and not just on the road. Could this also be the reason for the strong dislike for cyclists riding in skin-tight Lycra, and relying on muscle power to cover the distance instead of the self-propelling engine?

Then, staying on transport, there is a matter of the Eurotunnel, which passes under the English Channel (or La Manche if you are French). There has been calls by right-wing newspaper commentators to have the tunnels closed permanently, even to the extent of blasting them with dynamite. English commentators that is, since I have doubts whether the French would be that keen to have the tunnels shut down. With two return trips to Paris on the Eurostar train with my wife already completed, and a possibility of a third trip, this time to Marseilles, on the cards for next year, I have become an avid fan of Eurostar. As I see it, this magnificent service is the visible, tangible representation of the European Union. It also holds the solution to my partially disabled wife for international travel without the need to fly, which cabin air pressure and such, might pose a further threat to her health. That was after the return flight home from Malta in 2012, as well as on board a plane from Kos a year earlier, when on both occasions had suffered with backache.

A fan of the Eurostar, taken Oct 2016.

And it is the European Union which is the issue here, or rather a BBC Panorama programme broadcast earlier in the week. It was about English gang violence against immigrants, Poles in particular, which spiked soon after the 2016 Referendum. The sequence seems to be the same - five gang members against two Poles, or even a single victim. Very much like the right-wing, racist thugs who attacked and killed Stephen Lawrence in 1993. Back then there were also five of them. At first it was five against two, but one of the victims managed to run off to get help. So that leaves five against one. When they appeared in Court, all were dressed smartly in suit and tie. Yet this tells me a lot about them. Their suits might have accentuated their Englishness. But not their bravery or heroism. Instead, they were cowards. Just by looking at a snapshot of Stephen Lawrence tells me straightaway that he already had a high level of education. It showed in his facial expression. This was confirmed afterwards by reading an article saying that the victim's ambition was to be an architect. And his fate was to meet a premature death as a result of inferior complex shared between each gang member.

The Panorama programme showed groups of up to five strong chasing just two Poles and having caught up with them and then shouting at them,

Get the fuck out of our country! Go back to your own fucking country! You're not welcome here!

Then they proceeded to beat them up until hospitalisation was required for the victim.

But before I go any further, I need to ask: Were you shocked to see strong language here, O Christian reader? Were you tempted to click off this page after reading such unseemly words? If so, then I have hit the nail on the head. There lies the problem. For although had Jesus himself had been there, he would have mingled freely among them, even absorbing foul language thrown at him at least at first by them due to his Jewishness. Yet his love for them would have prevailed, with a result of changed hearts and spiritual rebirth. Then if a couple of middle-class Anglican churchgoers were to approach him with the question on what he was doing among scum, his reply would have been classic - I tell you the truth: those whom you call scum will enter the Kingdom of God before you! - Matthew 21:31-32.

But as my wife sat, smuggling up to me whilst watching the documentary, she began to become very concerned, and started to plead with me: Please, don't get worked up! Don't get angry! Remember your heart! That was when she felt my torso tremble with rage. Was it rage against those gangs who were giving the Poles a hard time, simply because they were immigrants, and not English? And was all this exacerbated by the Brexit win at the Referendum? Well, almost, but they weren't the bulls-eye of the intended target. For strangely enough, my anger was directed more towards middle-class churchgoers who voted Leave. Before writing this, I had to sit down and think things through. These gangs living in more deprived areas of any city had the same psychological problem as the thugs who killed Stephen Lawrence. And the same as the power-mad motorist over a Lycra-clad cyclist. And the elderly gent whose windows I had cleaned. They all suffered some form of inferior complex at one degree or another, or some threat to their own egos. Especially if the immigrants were far more successful in finding manual jobs and accepting low pay in such a graceful way no white, English working-class youth would tolerate. In addition, many of these immigrants were successful in setting up their own business, thus showing up the indigenous as incapable of entrepreneurial ability, with the possible exception of drug trafficking.  

As a result of such in-depth thinking, I could not be angry at those deprived city gangs. Rather, due to the reluctance of churches being where they are most needed - at those deprived districts where hatred breeds hatred. It is a well known fact that Anglican churches steer clear of such areas, in favour of wealthier districts with respectability, whilst carefully selecting their leaders from the gene pool at both Oxford and Cambridge Universities.

I don't believe that Jesus would have acted in the same way as the present churches. Instead, he would have mingled right in their midst, and tolerating the foul language, the swearing, the curses, and the obscenity which passed through the air on a daily basis. After all, are these present street gangs really worse than the fishermen who plied the Sea of Galilee each day to eke out a living? After all, had he not heard the invective and abusive language thrown by them at the tax collector, the latter seen as a traitor to the Romans. Yet Jesus called a tax collector along with fishermen to be his disciples. And all this is endorsed by Scripture itself, which records Peter cursing and swearing during his denial after the arrest of Jesus (Matthew 26:74) - which was a relapse into his natural self during unfavourable circumstances.

Then again, I believe that the reluctance of churches setting root at such deprived areas may be borne out of fear. Fear of verbal abuse. Fear of physical harm. If a Christian is fearful or wary, the gangster will see through this straightaway, and tend to be more threatening. Genuine love, borne out of faith in God is the only weapon against such hatred, including patriotic hatred. And not quoting a set of rules on morality, not even the Bible either, as this would probably rub salt into the wound and enhance hostility. Instead, the gangster must see genuine love, based on the believer's trust in God, the same way Jesus' faith in his Father allowed his love to flow unhindered to the very worst of sinners.

How I wish that the Holy Spirit would come upon us so powerfully that all fears, anxieties and wariness would be washed away, leaving nothing else but strong, agape love for these people. After all, God's love yearns for them, and I believe, his yearning for them is more important to him than our obsession with religion, patriotism, social class, higher education, and wealth.

A Shocking Incident At St. Pancras...

The weather wasn't great as I pushed my partially disabled wife's wheelchair through the busy streets of London. After a refreshing cappuccino at an upstairs Winstone's Bookshop cafe overlooking Trafalgar Square, we carried on with the walk across London from Waterloo Station, south of the Thames, to our pre-booked room at Premiere Inn Kings Cross, close to the northern boundary of the City. Not that there was no public transport available. There is always public transport in Central London. As a matter of fact, it is possible to take a wheelchair onto the Underground at Waterloo to alight at Kings Cross St Pancras Station, after changing trains at Green Park Underground station. We had done this last year before boarding the Eurostar train to Paris which ran through the Eurotunnel. 

But this time I wasn't in the mood for long waits for the lift at all three Underground stations, nor was I prepared for long walks between platforms through a maze of lighted tunnels. Neither were we in a hurry. We were not due to board the Eurostar until just after eleven in the morning. So instead, by staying at a hotel room overnight has relieved us from the morning pressure of arriving at St. Pancras International station in a desperate hurry. And so, with plenty of time to spare, we delighted in the busy streets bustling with life and vitality. Too bad that when an item advertised as a raincoat was on display at a small, family-run shop in Dorset, it proved anything but a raincoat. For by the time we were walking northwards along Charing Cross Road, the heavens opened.

I quickly grabbed the raincoat out from my small rucksack and whipped it on. It didn't take long for the dampness to penetrate the "waterproof" fabric like water passing through a sieve, fully soaking the V-neck cotton tee-shirt underneath. Yet my spirits remained high, as my wife's spirit remained on the high as well. For the whole purpose of this trip was to fulfil my wife's dream of visiting the Palace of Versailles, which her Mum told her about within the past year, and therefore had excited her. 

We found the Premiere Inn Hotel without difficulty, as its entrance stood directly opposite the east side of Kings Cross Station, which itself stands literally next door to St. Pancras Station, therefore taking only five minutes to reach the international station from the hotel. With my soaking wet tee-shirt draped across a chair, Alex began to blow-dry using the hotel hair dryer. Such little actions goes a long way towards harmony, believe me, because that was the shirt I wanted to travel in on the next day. Later in the afternoon, while Alex was resting, I decided to saunter casually to the station. What I have found there was rather shocking.

There were massive crowds at the Eurostar terminal. Having already become fully familiar with the facility, straightaway I knew something was seriously wrong. This was confirmed by the apologetic announcement from the intercom, asking everyone present that there is a problem and to listen out for further announcements. I wondered around the large terminus. On one of the many illuminated signboards, the reason for the delay and buildup at the Eurostar departure terminus was displayed. Signal failure in the tunnel itself. My spirit fell, but with thankfulness that we were not meant to travel that evening, I resolved that this fault will be fixed within the next couple of hours. And so I returned to the hotel with a degree of hope.

Eurostar Terminal on a normal day.

About three to three and a half hours later, Alex asked if we can go out on an evening stroll. I thought that this was a good opportunity to see if any progress was made at the station. But as we approached from the street, I noticed that the main doors into the Eurostar terminal were closed - something rather unusual. We made our way to the main station entrance, and immediately saw the end of a long queue of people, complete with wheeled suitcases, snaking back and forth, switchback-style, in the foyer before disappearing round a corner. We followed the queue as it snaked towards the Eurostar terminal, where the queue widened out into a large crowd of frustrated passengers, totalling obscuring the rather flimsy barrier stretching the entire entrance, and patrolled by Police and station staff attempting to answer the barrage of questions thrown at them. Even I had quick access to one of the officers, and asked in typical British politeness whether this problem would affect next morning's departures. Her answer was that she didn't know herself, and nobody else knew either.

We lingered as I watched what could be hundreds, if not thousands, of frustrated passengers standing in apparent calmness. Yep, this is Britain, where a crisis such as this is met with astonishing calmness and reserve. I was thinking; had this been Italy for example, there would have been a massive riot, with shouting and arms gesticulating everywhere! Then came the announcement over the intercom:

Eurostar apologise that all trains are cancelled until further notice. Please go to the Eurostar website and claim your refunds.   

Immediately I saw one young man pull out his mobile phone as he began to walk away. More and more phones began to appear as the crowd slowly began to disperse. So concluded that Friday evening, the most peak time of the week for national and international travel. I myself felt crushed at the uncertainty of our own travels. Alex felt very perturbed too. As we exited the station for a stroll into central London, I was forcing myself to understand where God is in all this. Should we call this whole trip off and go home, just as most, if not all, of that crowd may be doing? Would our travel insurance policy reimburse us? After all, none of this was any of our fault. Should I even turn up unexpectedly at church on that Sunday morning to testify of our faith in God, even if I would be aware of one or two in the congregation who would grin from ear to ear with gloating and self-satisfaction?

Then my thoughts turned to the crowd as they all dispersed. I wonder how many were excited at their first try with Eurostar? The satisfying of curiosity on what would be like to enter a tunnel in England and to emerge out of it in France - exactly as I felt a year earlier at our initial trip. Then how many more were regular travellers and therefore perceived the crisis as a one-off nuisance, one of life's mere inconveniences? Whichever may be, a massive crowd of negative emotions, with hardly a positive feeling within the station premises. All caused by a signal failure. Which allowed me to perceive the value of life altogether. Let's face it, we are incredibly privileged to be able to travel overseas in the first place, whether it be by train, boat, or 'plane. And not travelling to war either, nor even for business, but to travel for pleasure. How many here in Britain are homeless and spend their nights in the street, in hostels, even in hotels, or forced to live in homes of their friends, or stuck in unemployment for a prolonged period of time? Or depending on State handouts with a very uncertain future, living off food banks? Such aren't ever likely to see the inside of a Eurostar train.

A Eurostar train at St Pancras International Station.

Then considering Third World countries where many eke out a living ploughing the field, sowing and reaping, often with the risk of drought or flooding. I reckon they have never heard of Eurostar, and as a result, are quite content with their lot. Or to look back at history, when many were born to be slaves, to live without any other choice but to constantly satisfy the will of their masters. If any of them breached his master's will, then its likely to be flogged. Or those born to die young in battle. Or of many more who died of illness or malnutrition. Yet they tended to see all these things as normality of life, and tried to make the best of it. We are indeed a privileged generation who can travel in comparative luxury and style - at a level unknown by previous generations.

And yet, if something like a signal failure had totally wrecked our holiday, I know for sure that both of us would have been very distressed, no matter how loud we might have proclaimed our faith in God. I would have asked, Why did God allow such an insignificant thing such as a signal failure to wreck everything in our lives? Of course, I would have recited Romans 8:28 - For we know that all things work for the good for those who loves God, and are called according to his purpose - but would my own heart really be settled by this form of assurance? I need to be true to myself. Then again, with multiple hundreds in that crowd waiting to board, how many were true Christian believers? There must have been some among the crowd. What was going through their minds? Did their faith in God give them strength of inward assurance which allowed them to give thanks in all circumstances? Or, on the other end of the scale, decided that all this religious stuff is nonsense and unable to withstand the realities of the real world, and then apostate?

It is one of these things I find difficult, if not impossible to answer. A slave manages to please his master, and he is content with his reward - something equivalent to a small piece of candy. He would never dream of anything more worthwhile. Or a reluctant soldier marching away from his sweetheart or his pregnant wife, knowing that he may never see her again, as he imagines standing in a snow-laden, wind-blown trench with enemy bullets flying close past until one passes through his heart. Or a impoverished farmer suffering crop failure yet again for another year. Or a single mother of two children on state handouts, failing one job interview after another. Or confined to a bed at a hospital terminal ward. Life can be cruel, so unfair, yet I am aware of the reality of distress felt had there been no trains departing on the following Saturday morning. The reality of it all. Indeed, the one of two in our church may feel justified in gloating over our misfortune. Our holiday could have been wrecked. There have always been, and will always be people worse off than us, whose chance of boarding a Eurostar train remains an impossible dream.

We were up fairly early the following morning. After breakfast at the hotel restaurant, we checked out and then I explained at Reception that because of the crisis at St Pancras, would there be a chance of a room for the following night? This was a question I put to them after an unsettled night. Seeing my wife in distress, she began to suffer symptoms which could have put her in an ambulance. Instead, I suggested taking an extra Diazepam medicine pill, and as such, managed to make a recovery. And as I lay on the bed and thought matters through, I spoke aloud, so my wife heard what I had to say. I said that because we have enough resources, we will go to Paris, whatever it takes, and I will fulfil her dream. Even if we had to re-book the train for both outward and return journeys and the hotel dates too. I was willing to pay the extra, if it meant Alex's happiness. I assured her that we will not be returning home until our trip is complete. Suddenly I felt strong. And reassuring. And from then on I slept soundly.

So with the promise of a room at the London hotel assured, we set off early to the Eurostar terminal at St. Pancras terminus. Everything looked normal, including the open entrance doors leading into the facility from the street. Once inside, there were very few people about. Noticing Alex's wheelchair, two of the Eurostar boarding team approached us and called us aside. We were then offered an upgraded place on the ten o'clock departure. After phone calls and verification, we were allowed to board the earlier train, which left right on time, ninety minutes earlier than we had originally scheduled. It was incredible! We literally walked into the station and (of course, after passing through security and passport control) we were settled in so quickly, as if a daily commuter after a day in the office.

Really it all goes to show: What had everything went so smoothly on the Friday evening, watching people board the Eurostar as normal as always - only to discover that the signal failure had occurred during breakfast time on our morning of travel? Yes, what then? I would have been crushed emotionally and gutted! This backed by a fierce envy of everyone who had the fortune to board normally, not only on the evening before, but at all other times. The trouble would have been this -  my thinking being in panic mode, I would have quickly collected my refund instead of sitting down, and with rational thinking, assure my distressed wife that we will be going to Paris, even if it means spending another night at the London hotel and rescheduling our return trip. Although why God allowed many to suffer distress on that Friday evening, that is a mystery I cannot answer, yet I do feel God to be on our side, and even allowed as a little bonus of an earlier departure.

Alex's dream was fulfilled. We had no trouble visiting the Palace of Versailles on the next day after arrival. As I watched my beloved break into tears of sheer joy at the beauty and magnificence of the Palace interior, I could not help realise that life is a precious gift from God. Yes, it does seem grossly unfair, why I was born into this privilege and freedom to travel, whilst just a generation back another was born to face warfare, and yet further back, those born into slavery. Why is it that some are born into a life of Royalty, while another is born to live in the ditch? One rather striking example of this gross unfairness was during negro slave days in the New World. Back then, two sons were born to one father. One was born to inherit the plantation, its wealth and all its slaves. Then his half-brother was born to be a slave. It all depends where the father and plantation owner had planted his seed, whether into his legal wife or into his coloured concubine.

Hall of Mirrors at the Palace of Versailles, taken Oct. 2017.

Fountain at Palace Gardens, taken Oct. 2017.

But after all this, I have come to this conclusion: All life is a gift from God, and regardless of which course it takes, it is all by divine grace. Because, if our livelihoods depended on human merit, not a single human being would live! By nature, we are all deserving of death and eternal separation from God. The very breath we take, at each heartbeat, as our food is digested, our immune system, all these and more are constantly maintained by God, with Christ shining his light into everyone born into the world, according to John 1:9. Yes, life is incredibly unfair. There are more questions than answers. But I believe that everything in our lives is a gift of God by grace, including life itself. So I, for one, need to be thankful to God for each day he gives me.