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. 

A Trip to the British Museum...

One unique feature about a Bank Holiday Monday is that it's usually very different from a normal Monday. As one good friend of mine said to me after a church service had finished, it's a refreshing diversity from those familiar feelings of "Monday Morning Blues" - when it seems easier for a log to lift itself off from the ground unaided than for a human to get up out of bed to that intrusive ringing of the alarm clock shattering a romantic dream or visions of a faraway paradisal location.

Indeed, I was not at all surprised when my young friend and Christian brother, Dr Andrew Milnthorpe, messaged me on Facebook a few days earlier whether we were free for this particular holiday Monday, a non-religious-based May Day, which always follows the first Sunday after the start of that particular Spring month. Indeed we were free that day, meaning we had no particular plans. Therefore I submitted a proposal for a visit to the British Museum, set in the Bloomsbury district of Central London. Surprisingly, this post-graduate seem to lack enthusiasm but agreed to accompany us anyway. Such a trip out seemed far better than being stuck alone indoors.

As train-travel goes, there was a closure on our line into London Waterloo station, a typical statutory holiday phenomenon, which meant changing platforms at Clapham Junction, itself featured in the Guinness Book of Records as being the UK's busiest station. The sheer impracticality of such a manoeuvre involving a wheelchair was a bit too much. Therefore we chose the fast Reading-Paddington Great Western mainline route followed by a single ride on the Underground. 

I love being on a fast train. According to my experience, the Eurostar London-Paris route remains unbeatable. But equally enjoyable is the 18-minute non-stop on one of Britain's principal routes. And Providence was on my side - just. Because on the opposite platform at Reading, another train was already standing, a stopping service to London. Had it been a five-coach train featuring first class, Andrew would have insisted on boarding it. But instead, it was a three-coach train without first class accommodation. Therefore we waited a little longer for the long-haul nine-coach train which was non-stop. This meant a difference in journey time between eighteen minutes and one of around 33 minutes - the 15-minute margin having the potential of playing havoc to Alex's back and her general comfort.

We eventually arrived at the museum. Although this was Alex's first visit, whether my friend has been before, I didn't get around to asking. But I have been before and I knew what I really wanted to see.

After Andrew had treated us to a sumptuous meal at a rather posh third-floor restaurant where waiters were dressed in a white shirt and a black bow-tie, we remained on the third floor to enter the Egyptian Afterlife gallery - mummies and their highly decorated coffins, all confined in glass cabinets. And because Andrew loves pushing Alex's wheelchair, the two stayed together, giving me a level of relief from having to constantly push. And suddenly I found myself alone in the crowd.

Indeed, it was the most crowded gallery in the whole museum. Whether the public has a fascination with morbidity or otherwise, I cannot be too sure. But Alex and Andrew couldn't be seen throughout the gallery. Also, I was a tad disappointed. I recall my last visit to this particular gallery, more than thirty-five years previously. Back then, I was sure that there were far more mummies on display, all confined in one room. This time there seem to be far fewer mummies and a heck of a lot more empty coffins, all standing upright like soldiers on parade.

Mummies at the British Museum - taken May 2019.

That visit so long ago coincided with one of my backpacking trips to Italy, this one completed in the Autumn of 1982. By holding a 21-day Italian Rail Pass, I was able to travel around the whole length of the country from Milano, where I had the pass validated, to as far south as Sicily. Maybe I did - and still have - a fascination with morbidity. I managed to include a visit to the Catacombs of St John, a network of tunnels deep underneath the city of Siracusa, which once housed hundreds of the dead buried in niches which were all carved into the tunnel walls. Back in 1982, I was able to stroll along at my own pace, alone, taking as much time as I need. At present, visiting is confined by escorted group tours which are carried out rather hurriedly, and therefore not given enough time to absorb the experience.

Another attraction is located underneath a church in the Sicilian capital city of Palermo. It is known as il Catacombe dei Cappuccini. On the same 1982 trip, I was entirely alone in this underground crypt one morning. I stood as the well-preserved mummies seem to take on a life on their own as many of the skulls stared down at me. There is a legend that one of the mummies fell out of its place and landed on one of the passing tourists as if to say Get out! The only sense of eeriness was from a loose flap swinging back and forth at the air vent. The constant Bap! Bap! Bap! of the hinged metal panel did alleviate what would have been an even eerier, death-like silence.

And while I'm at it, I might as well mention the Catacombs of Paris. Situated at the end of a very long underground tunnel, again I was alone as I visited off-season in 1985. Those were the glory-days when anyone can walk directly to the base of the Eifel Tower from the street or from the Jardin without the need to pass through security barriers and undergoing bag checks and airport-style security gates. Meanwhile, I've found that the catacombs of Paris were very much unlike that of Palermo. Rather, deep underneath the streets of Paris, there were just piles and piles of femurs interspersed with skulls. 

Do I have a sense of morbid fascination? Maybe so, but I think that this is borne out from decades of disillusionment with class-obsessed and celebrity-worshipping Englishness with much of this reflected in our churches, according to more than 45 years experience as a Christian believer. For example, the ongoing obsession with the disappearance of a doctor's daughter Madeleine McCann more than a decade ago, and still in the news to this day as police continue to search for her, boosted by extra public funding. Or the Leave-supporting graduate in our church who denies the historicity of Genesis yet held in reverential respect by the Elders and the congregation alike. And now also being surrounded by other Brexit-voting churchgoers who seem to be obsessed with optimistic views on Britain outside the EU and a longing for national sovereignty and yes, glory.

We seem to have forgotten that the same fate awaits every one of us. Its cruelty is reflected in the fact of being no respecter of persons or lowly animals alike - let alone social status, education, fame, or wealth. As with a poster submitted to Andrew's Facebook timeline showing the smug expression of Nigel Farage and his new Brexit Party, partly funded by a wealthy businessman and all, I felt my heart fell. Please give it a rest! But the worst scenario found in the Bible is to be called a fool by God himself.

It is found in Luke 12:13-21. It was taught by Jesus in a country within which, wealth was a sign of righteousness before God, based on Deuteronomy 28:1-14 and similar Scriptures. Here was a businessman and a successful one at that. If the text in Deuteronomy 28:1-14 had provided a yardstick for society to evaluate a man's righteousness by his wealth, then what Jesus here says must have been a shock to his audience! One truth stands out like a sore thumb. That is, he was concerned about his own future prosperity and he had no thought about others less well off, or those who were poor and hungry. He never realised that a far better way of living was within his powers by giving freely to the poor and needy. Instead, it was to eat, drink, and be merry, or as some modern translations put it - wine, women and song for you.

Thou fool! Tonight your soul shall be required of you. Supposing this guy had instead said to himself:

My fields have produced abundantly in the last few years and I have plenty to spare. This is what I ought to do: I will go out and use my abundance to feed the poor and help the needy. I will visit the home of the widow and ensure her welfare is okay. Furthermore, I shall bring gifts to children, especially those who are fatherless. So please, God, help me fulfil my destiny.

With such intentions, would God had called him a fool? I doubt it! Rather God would have blessed him with thirty, maybe forty more years of life, perhaps with fame and popularity as a bonus.

That is really living. The thing is, here in England, it can be difficult to actually live a life like that. Especially in churches where most are well educated and hold good jobs. Okay, there are the homeless. Walk through the streets of any town or city and sooner or later there is someone who has made his home on the sidewalk. I must confess, I tend to walk straight past. Maybe it's because in the past I had some bad experiences with them, such as being duped by putting on an act. My wife and I nearly fell for such a scam whilst staying in Chester. Or to donate a respectable sum of money, only to discover that his bandaged injury was a fake. Or to read that many of these beggars are actually quite well off and are not homeless. But try as I might, I cannot justify my own weakness, hence the need for a Saviour.

Whatever may be, those mummies and remains of dead people in the British Museum, under the streets of Paris, and in a Sicilian church crypt, all tell a powerful message. One day we all be as they are. With utterly no respect for our social standing, education, wealth, or whether we were popular or famous in society or not. 

Catacombe dei Cappuccini, Palermo. Visited 1982. 

Earlier I said that my mate Andrew Milnthorpe looked as he lacked enthusiasm in visiting the British Museum. It's very likely that he has been before or knows someone who has. While I was in the Egyptian Afterlife gallery, I could not see him nor my wife anywhere in the vicinity, which leads to the likelihood that he felt very uncomfortable looking at mummies or their coffins. And so these two were most likely in an adjoining gallery while I was examining the corpses. Rather they are all a reminder that whether he voted for Brexit and I voted to remain in the EU, neither counts for anything from the moment we step off this planet. Only our response to God's call will determine our eternal destiny.