The Need for Recognition.

Earlier in the week, I took a train to Oxford. Two trains, actually, with the need to change trains at Reading. This was one of those mid-week trips I often take, "to have lunch", as from time to time I go either to Reading or even to London to mull over my thoughts in a cafe, usually, the one inbuilt on the upper floor of a Marks & Spencer department store. Such is the life of one retired from paid work.

A life to be envied or pitied? That's a matter of each individual's opinion. But after a sumptuous meal, I wandered to a nearby shopping mall boasting a rooftop terrace. Among the city's soaring spires, I saw a phenomenon which, for a moment fooled me, until I looked at it more thoroughly.

It was a cloud formation just over the horizon. But the grey hue over a light background gave an impression of a distant estuary with a coastline backed by hilly terrain. It was so realistic, that indeed, for a moment, I was fooled into believing that the city of Oxford looked over a distant river estuary. 

The ghost estuary behind Oxford.

But by checking any map of the UK, it's obvious that the city is totally landlocked and located just south of the Midlands, although the River Thames does pass through it, making that stretch of the river popular with local canoeists and punters.

Afterwards, I found myself strolling along Broad Street along the south face of Balliol College, one of many institutions making up the University of Oxford. Just opposite its entrance, a shallow pothole in the road marks the exact site of the 1555 martyrdom of Anglican bishops Nicholas Ridley and Hugh Latimer. For me personally, this was the most outstanding event in Church history, followed in 1556 by the death of Anglican archbishop Thomas Cranmer who was also the author of the Book of Common Prayer, read in English churches for centuries afterwards. All three were burned alive on the same site for testifying the truthfulness of the Bible.

Although I have always admired such believers who prefer to give their lives to the fire rather than renounce the Bible or deny its truthfulness and historicity, there are times I can feel overwhelmed. From the site of the pothole, I look directly up to the hazy-blue sky and called out to God, feeling somewhat ashamed of my own worries and daily problems that seem paltry by comparison, and I ask for the same level of courage should I ever have to face martyrdom.

As I walk along the historic streets of the city, I watch those passing by predominantly young men and assume that one day they will boast of their alumni at Oxford University. Even our present Prime Minister, Boris Johnson, was once a student at Balliol College, as BBC foreign correspondent Mark Lowen, broadcasters Peter Snow and his son, Dan Snow, fellow broadcaster Robert Peston, Professor Richard Dawkins, and many others whose alumni served as the stepping stone to greatness.

I pause, look around and let out a sigh. Oh, how I wish that I succeded academically as these men did. How, from boyhood, have I longed to have made my late parents proud of me! Instead, what they did was to compare me with their neighbour's two sons who were both a little older and considerably brighter, and then to refer to me as an idiot, dim, and worst of all, those dreadful Italian words were directed at me by Mum - maledetto di Dio - cursed of God and destined for Hell. When told this every time I did or said something amiss or without proper forethought, sooner or later, I grew up to believe it to be all true. My sense of self-worth and self-esteem was rock bottom and I accepted all this as an indisputable fact, confirmed by my schoolmates, even our school teachers - to whom I was classed as below average - and later, by my work colleagues. Thus, it must be all true!

I wonder how many men think of themselves the same way I thought about myself? As author and BBC presenter, Simon Reeve wrote in his autobiography that the biggest killer in the UK amongst men is suicide. And he has the right to know. He wrote that as a late teenager, he stood on a footbridge spanning a busy motorway in West London, ready to jump. Just then, a passing truck honked a long blast - a sound that brought him to his senses as he pulled himself away from the edge. Reeve is one of a very rare species who eventually made his way to greatness without attending a Public School or University.

Have you ever had to stand in one long line, side by side, at the school football pitch at the start of the games session? Then the master picked out two team captains, and then it was left for the two boys to select their team players. I was always the last one remaining, and I had to join the team whose captain was unfortunate enough to watch me amber along to his side, whereafter I was invisible, totally ignored.

But sport as a whole I had never disliked. It's so fortunate that such activity covers a very wide range of disciplines, including contests against the clock. And in the early eighties, I put my version of a sport to practical use.

Exact spot of the martyrs' execution, Oxford.

Back in 1982, a friend invited me to a hospital radio studio, a small room tucked under the maternity ward building of Heatherwood Hospital in Ascot, the town renowned for its royal racecourse. Hospital radio is a very British institution, normally run by the League of Friends, a charity that gives moral support to in-patients, especially those who are long-stays. Actually, it wasn't a radio in the proper sense, but a cable connection to each of the detachable cell phone-like devices set beside each bed. With each of these, the patient listens to the radio via their earphones.

I became a member of the Friday crew, at first, too many of us to fit into such a small room. Each one of us had just 35 minutes to sit at the console, nicknamed Alice - and he was free to air his voice into the microphone, to be heard by every patient across the whole hospital who had tuned in. Thus, the studio became a cauldron of heated egos, each one of us vying for recognition, a prelude to fame, as a radio presenter, usually mislabeled as disc jockeys, or simply jocks for short.

It was known that hospital radio was a pathway for presenting on national radio, whether it's the BBC or commercial radio. We had one chap who was so vaingloriously ambitious and wanted to broadcast on the BBC, that he made his own cassette recording of his presentation, and submitted it to both the BBC and commercial radio stations. However, he was rejected by all of them and he left our crew without ever returning. 

All this was in the days of the vinyl, long before CDs came into fashion, let alone the computer or the Internet. On one side of the console, there were two manual turntables. While the record on one of them was playing, the other one was cued, ready for the music to begin at the right moment. On one side of the room was the record library. a large cabinet of shelves holding hundreds of albums and singles. Thus, each turntable was twin-speed, 33 RPM for the albums and 45 RPM for the singles (I thought I give this info for the benefit of those born after the year 1995.)

Thus, a common mistake was forgetting to adjust the speed of the turntable after the music had begun. There were times when, even unaware of the presenter's attention, either a single churned out its tune too slowly or an album was whizzing its contents too quickly. Thus the term Roger the Bodger was coined by me, after the Beano comic character and became something of a laughable joke.

The record library gave a good insight into human psychology, even if unwittingly. The largest number of albums taking up the shelves were of solo male singers, such as Adam Faith, Cliff Richard, Elvis Presley, Frank Sinatra, Rolf Harris, Val Doonican, Gene Pitney - to name a few. Fewer in numbers were male group vocals, such as Beatles, Rolling Stones, Tremeloes, Small Faces, Beach Boys, etc. Female vocals both solo and groups, were considerably fewer, along with the classical albums. All this is a good indication that the need for recognition is found more strongly among males.   

As this strong desire for recognition, especially among males, was reflected by the size of the record stack, so in the studio, the sense of competition was felt, with one teenage presenter, whose mother was a nurse at the hospital, preceded the rest of us. Thus, he referred to himself as the senior jockey, despite his young age. It was due to him that I unintentionally took on the role of detective, after watching him steal singles from the library after reports of records going missing throughout the preceding months.

Eventually, after my initial friend who invited me in the first place left the crew due to his job schedule, I was assigned the team leader by the charity chairman. I narrowed the number of presenters to just three, to cover the full three hours from 7.00-10.00 pm. That is a full hour at the microphone for each of us.

However, the charity eventually ran short of funding. Therefore, by collecting sponsors from both my window cleaning customers and from church friends, I ran the Bracknell Half Marathon to contribute towards rebalancing the charity's funds. Since several attempts had to be made, I ran the race three times, one event a year, to contribute to the restoration of the fund. I also ran a stall at a local fete to raise further funds to put the studio and the charity back on track.

Eventually, in 1985, I left Radio Heatherwood, with myself assigning the keys as team leader to my successor, a friend from church who had joined our crew and was trained up mainly by the two of us. Leaving him to take the reins, I moved on to join Thames Valley Triathletes, based in Reading, as a follow-up from the half marathons I completed.

At Radio Heatherwood studio, taken 1985.

My tale as a triathlete is another story, to which space won't allow me to detail here. Suffice to say, I enjoyed competing in the combined Swim-Cycle-Run events held across the country. Some of these events required an overnight stay at a hotel or even a backpacker's hostel. But not only had I found these events a challenge to my physical side but also to both mental and emotional integrity.

But our greatest achievement was accomplished by bringing the Triathlon into Bracknell, placing our hometown on the world triathlon map. Details on how that was accomplished have already been written in one of my older blogs, Alan Sugar at the Kerith? Thanks, Ascot Baptist. A direct link is given below.

If you see how my blog layout had evolved between 2011 and the present, that's another reason not to feel worthless. Perseverance is what I love doing - which is writing - will lead to such improvements.

Finally, doing everything for the glory of God is the underlying secret behind all issues concerning self-esteem. 

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*To extract the blog from the archives, Alan Sugar at the Kerith? Click here

Wonderful Therapies During a Crisis.

As I sat at Starbucks this morning with a cappuccino, a croissant and The Daily Mail newspaper - all in a traditional Saturday morning ritual, and an Asian young man sitting at the table next to mine with a laptop, and just a few metres away, a group of thirty-something women laughing during a hearty conversation. I find it rather amazing that a coffee bar can bring the best out of people, despite that my beloved is on her way, by taxi, to the hospital to have a new catheter fitted, and my own spirit grieving over the fate of those stranded at Hamid Karzai Airport of Afghanistan's capital, Kabul.

While I could help but feel the oppressive air around me, caused by the endless news bulletins covering Afghanistan and the distress felt over those who are stranded there, together with my wife's poor health and her recent hospital visits, I have found one sliver of hope which has wonderful therapeutic benefits to both mind and soul alike: to recognise the sovereignty of God and to thank Him for the good things we have the freedom to enjoy.

Britain, being an island, is very different to landlocked Afghanistan. At least, despite our appalling climate, there is always the trip to the seaside. Whilst stuck in a traffic jam stretching several miles along the road, difficult - and expensive - parking facilities, or rather the lack of them, bored children aggravating their parents as the car in front refusing to budge forward a few inches, and the prospect of the blue sea lapping gently over a sandy beach being so alluring, many a family is prepared to take the risk of being stuck in traffic for several hours - even if Dad finds damp sand clinging between his toes so irritating.

If an Afghan family wishes to visit the coast, they must first cross into Pakistan - if they can do that with ease, as far as I'm aware, Pakistan doesn't support the Taliban. But even with a safe entry into the neighbouring country, it would be a long drive to get to the Gulf of Omar coastline, around 16 hours by car, covering 1,226 km, 757 miles, from the Afghan border at Chaman. And that if there is no traffic congestion.

 

According to Taliban custom, everything associated with entertainment is banned. Music is banned, along with owning and playing of all instruments, so is television, the VCR, ariel dishes, the cinema, theatre, the internet, watching or playing football or any other sport, kite-flying - a popular pastime among children - is also banned, as with having pictures, toys and models of all animals. Women are denied any education, and they must only leave their homes wearing a full-face burka and accompanied by a male chaperon related to her (eg, husband or brother.) Little wonder there are many trying to flee!

As I sat at the table, I was looking back on how I felt towards God. And I couldn't help feeling a degree of anger towards Him! Especially about my wife's poor health caused by a side-effect brought about by her daily medication. My mind was racing with one question after another, basically, Why? Why are we having such negative experiences while there are other Christian believers living life to the full? As I pondered on these thoughts, I began to realise how blessed we really are. Especially as I turned the pages of the newspaper and arrived at the page featuring Covid. Then I remembered.

At the start of the pandemic in March last year, I stood on a boardwalk near my home and cried out to God for us not to be affected by the virus. Seventeen months later my prayer remains apparently answered, even if my wife had it for a few days last summer before her immune system freed her from further infection. Her recovery was swift. Whether I was affected by the virus, I will never know. But this was something to thank God for, our safekeeping during the pandemic. So far. Even though we're both fully vaccinated, I refuse to sit on our laurels. We could still be struck down.

And I'm so thankful that we live in a land of democracy and freedom. And despite the lockdown, our freedoms remain enviable if compared with living under a Taliban regime. Indeed, during the first lockdown, someone may be fined for enjoying a flask of tea outdoors or taking a dog out for a walk in a large, deserted park. But at least nobody received floggings for such "offences". Add to that, the restrictions were temporary. Furthermore, we still enjoyed a greater level of liberty than Australia or New Zealand - thanks to our successful vaccination rollout.

Australia. I have backpacked through this wonderful country in 1997 for nearly six weeks. The trip included snorkelling at the Great Barrier Reef and hiking through the Blue Mountains National Park. Yet, I now thank the Lord I don't live there, despite wishing otherwise earlier. The lockdown restrictions imposed during the pandemic wasn't that far off from the restrictions imposed by a Taliban State. For example, facemasks were mandatory outdoors, with fines handed out to anyone out and about without one. And what I have heard, it took just one infected arrival to New Zealand from Sydney to shut down the whole of the country. Yet despite such draconian measures, the number of infections is growing, albeit slowly. As Sweden taught us, the virus is here to stay. The pathogen cannot be eliminated. It's here to stay. We just have to live with it.

I thank the Lord for the brilliance of both the British and European scientists for their rapid development of the AstraZeneca and the Pfizer vaccines. As such, we have regained much of our freedoms. As an anti-masker, I feel relief that here in the UK, those wretched "face nappies" are no longer mandatory in many places, but I still carry one when out and about should I be asked to wear it.

Further thoughts passed through my mind as I sat at that table. How is it that by living in the West, I have a better chance of hearing the Gospel and believing than one born in the Middle East, especially in a Muslim country? This, to me, is not only grossly unfair, but it's also practically insane. A baby born in a "Christian country" and with a church found in every town and plenty in larger cities, there is a good chance that the child will hear the Gospel. But where Islam dominates, if ever the Gospel is announced, the preacher is likely to face execution. The child growing up hearing the Gospel in an Islamic State is nigh impossible.

A Mosque in Afghanistan.

All this makes me wonder why God allows such a scenario - that your eternal destiny is determined by where you were born? That if you believe that the Bible says that faith in Jesus Christ is the only way to Heaven after death (John 14:6, Acts 4:12.) Then I think about one poor Afghan who was so terrified of the Taliban takeover of his beloved homeland, that he tried to escape by clutching at the wheels of a US Force plane as it was taking off from Hamid Karzai Airport - only for his remains to be discovered after landing at Kuwait. He was only nineteen years old, a very handsome young Muslim and a promising footballer. His fear of the Taliban ending his potential career in professional football and his liberties was too much for him, thus putting his own life at risk. A lost eternity? So much for being born in an Islamic State.

However, that does not deter me from grieving over my own countrymen. Although a third of our population claim to be Christian, the majority are either agnostic or atheist. Among the Christian claims, the greater majority are nominal. That is, they don't attend church regularly but only for Christenings, weddings, funerals and Christmas. As for the atheist's way of thinking, they tend to lump all religions as one anti-science nonsense, including Young-Earth Creationism. I fear that the takeover of a State by the Taliban and then imposing draconian restrictions will have a bad influence on Christianity in the atheist's eyes. After all, Muslims acknowledge Jesus Christ having once lived. Only that they believe he wasn't even crucified, let alone rising from the dead.

The average atheist, and perhaps many Christians too, are unlikely to be aware that the Christian faith and Islam does not lead to the same God, as the Vatican insist. Allah is not the triune God of Israel or of the Bible. The God we worship as Christians are in three Persons: Father, Son and Holy Spirit. By contrast, Allah is a single entity that has no son. Rather, Allah represents the moon god, and this becomes evident, as seen above every mosque. The symbol on the roof of each mosque is always shaped like the crescent moon, and the symbol is also found on some Islamic flags. These include Algeria, Comoros, Pakistan, Maldives, Tunisia, Malaysia, and a few others, but neither on Afghan nor the Taliban flags.

The founder of Islam was the prophet, Mohammed. His bones are with us, buried in the city of Medina in Saudi Arabia. The founder of the Christian faith is Jesus Christ. Mohammed died a natural death and did not atone for our sins. Jesus Christ was crucified as a criminal specifically to atone for our sins. He was then buried, as Mohammed was, but three days later, Jesus rose physically from the dead - the first person ever in human history to do so - whilst Mohammed remains in his grave to this day. Hence the difference between Christianity and Islam is so wide, it could be considered poles apart. Jesus Christ rose from the dead. No other religious founder had achieved that. 

Oh, the ugliness of the Crucifixion and the beauty of the Resurrection! I love to say that after His Resurrection, Jesus Christ has two bodies. He took one with Him to Heaven, leaving the other behind. Hence my thanksgiving for all the good things God has given us. Thinking of all my travel experiences - memories I treasure - and the lovely wife I now have...

Thank you, Lord.

Giving thanks to God for his goodness - even if everything looks to be so dire - is good therapy. Maybe this psychological therapy was well recognised by the apostle Paul. He wrote on many occasions to always give thanks to God throughout the New Testament. And that applies specifically to people like me. My natural temperament tends to be pessimistic and prone to fear of the unknown, anxiety, the feeling of uncertainty and depression. Recognising God for who He is and counting my blessings and acknowledging God's goodness are all good antidotes to these negative emotions.

The crescent moon topping every mosque. 

And church fellowship. One of the greatest benefits I missed during the pandemic was face-to-face contact with other Christians, the moral support gained when the chips are down, the greetings and hugs, and the one-to-one talk with another believer over coffee. And now we have the technology. Through Zoom, I find the weekday morning prayers a great benefit. And also through Facebook. However, with Facebook, there are several Christians who refuse to be "friends" with me. And some of these folk I knew personally as far back as the late seventies.

One, in particular, arrived at our church from University around 1978 or 79. By around 1981 or 1982, he then took on a mortgage for a property not far from where I lived, and he also took in two graduate lodgers whose incomes helped sustain his mortgage. When I played squash each week with one of his tenants, he took me to this grad's home for toast and coffee. We teased each other in good spirits. There was never any animosity between us. Instead, laughter abounded as well as some more serious discussions. As far as I'm aware and my memory allows, I had never intended to cause any offence.

Earlier in the week, I was browsing Facebook, and I came across his friendship seeking list. When I clicked onto his profile, I saw included in his photos one of the Grand Canyon. This inspired me to ask for his "friendship" having known him for over forty years. No response. I then checked his response on his profile before writing this blog. Not only was I rejected, but the Friend Request prompt was deleted. It was paramount to being blocked.

He is not alone. I have known several grads within my age margin who has taken the same attitude, all of them I've known for decades. I just don't understand why. I prefer to know. Like this, I can make appropriate amends if necessity calls for them.

These are very critical days. With my beloved, and myself too, under the constant eye of the NHS, along with the Taliban bringing all faith into disrepute, including and perhaps, especially the Christian faith, it's time for brotherly love, support and friendship to take a stand.

What a Contrast!

A homeless man stands in the street of Cambridge, one of the two world-famous University Cities, the other city being Oxford. It was a cold and dark February night. Presently, a passing student, having one drink over the top yet still dressed in a smart suit and bow-tie, approaches the homeless beggar and offered him some change. As the would-be recipient held out his hand in grateful anticipation, the student pulls out a £20 note and sets it on fire in front of him, either with matches or a cigarette lighter, with the words to the effect:

There you are, a change from £20 to a flame!

The student was Ronald Coyne, who was a member of the Cambridge Union Conservative Association, who also held Right Wing political views, and a supporter for Scottish independence. An ex-Public Schoolboy, he was also noted for his remarkable intellect. Upon publicity of such unbecoming, arrogant, and childish behaviour, his mother, who is living in Edinburgh, vigorously defended his son's personality, saying how lucky she has always been to have such a calm, charitable offspring for a son, and that particular incident was "so totally out of his character."

Cambridge student Ronald Coyne.

Echoes of the Bullington Club in Oxford?

The ultra-posh, aristocratic social club at the University, where membership is restricted to the very cream of English society, and initiation into membership involving the burning of a £50 note in the street in front of a cold, hungry homeless beggar. One former member of the Bullington, George Osborne, was until recently Chancellor of the Exchequer, the second most important politician in Government after the Prime Minister, and who was also responsible for ushering austerity, including cutting back on life-sustaining benefits for the struggling poor, even among those who manage to hold down a low-paid job, and forcing the crippled and infirm to seek work. Why not admit it? There is something unique about British culture!  

Perhaps I can go on. Just supposing that in the extreme unlikely odds that these two were close friends, and our charitable student invites the homeless beggar to accompany him to a church where neither has ever visited. Let's say it was a Baptist church set in a smaller town some distance out of Cambridge. Or it might be a Anglican church, or a Methodist church. Really, it does not matter which label the church names itself, nor its variations of theological teachings. The contrasting reactions by members of the congregation and its leaders between the two newcomers will be all but universal. And so would their reaction of the Gospel if presented to them.

Everyone in the church would be fully attentive to the student, not only as a potential member to add a degree of prestige, but a hopeful candidate for future leadership. If the student asked if he could give a talk, the minister would not hesitate to find a timeslot for him. The beggar, on the other hand, would be ignored, and woe to him if his days spent on the street resulted in body odour percolating through his untidy clothing. A large unoccupied area would grow around him. As for response to the Gospel, of course Ronald calls himself a Christian, and he plainly says so. And so a timeslot is assigned to him for the following weekend, and with his high intellect, he preaches rather eloquently, impressing everyone. He is held dear to all - until a couple of weeks later when he is pictured in the national newspaper about an incident where he was seen cruelly mocking another homeless tramp and setting fire to a £20 note right in front of his eyes. All in the church who read the report would be shocked and disappointed. And the student would never return, let alone preach. Because no matter how eloquent and deeply academic his preach might have been, he knows that he will never regain the respect of the congregation ever again. His faith has died, and it will remain dead in their sight forever, with no potential hope of resurrection.

As for the beggar, who was formerly an interested enquirer of the faith, he returns to his favourite spot in the Cambridge street feeling very disillusioned. What a hollow, hypocritical sham this "Christian" stuff is all about! His heart hardens, and takes the road to atheism. Was the student's dead faith able to save the beggar? (James 2:14). His anger towards his former friend's childish and arrogant behaviour will not only set his heart rock-hard against organised religion or even anything spiritual, but it's the start of his health gradually deteriorating. The time will come when he will by lying on the bed of a hospital ward, even if still a good few years away.

Miracles do happen. Big miracles. Because despite the beggar's hardened attitude against posh churchgoers, some time later, another passer-by arrives and stops to where the beggar is sitting. He too takes out some pound coins and hands them over to him. No fire this time. The benefactor, unlike the student, is dressed casually with denim torn at the knees as if deliberately, and with a plain tee-shirt. When the beggar thanks him for the gift, the giver, instead of merely walking away, decides to sit next to him for a chat and to find out how the beggar had gotten into this state after all.

The two had chatted for maybe up to an hour before they agree to visit a coffee shop nearby, where the beggar is treated further. Then the moment arrives when the beggar asked what the motive was behind the donor's generosity. He explains that God loves him so much that he has put into his heart to show generosity and compassion, especially to those worse off than himself, after realising that God sent his Son Jesus of Nazareth to die a cruel death to atone for all his shortcomings, was buried, and three days later rose physically from the dead, leaving behind his clothing lying undisturbed in an empty tomb, proving that this Jesus of Nazareth is the Christ, the Son of God.

Suddenly the beggar believed, also realising that it was God who brought this kind donor to take an interest, to talk and to spend time together. It was the living faith of this rather scruffy benefactor which saved him, and not the dead faith of the immaculately dressed Cambridge student.

Although I have fictionalised a true incident recorded in a newspaper article, the story isn't far from real experience. Before I go any further, I have to confess that I do have some reserve towards the "homeless" in our streets, because some of these people do have a place to stay, so I read. I have even heard that some of these beggars, especially in London, actually having day jobs. But the worst experience took place in Israel 1993. In Jerusalem I took pity on someone who looked to have a serious leg injury. So I gave him some money - and not just a few coins either. It wasn't until some time afterwards that I became aware that I have been taken for a ride. Since then, if I want to give, I always make sure my donations passes through a recognisable charity, especially a Christian one. 

Nevertheless, the above story does reflect my conversion way back in December 1972. Having been dumped by my girlfriend earlier of that year, indeed I felt like a beggar myself, in want of something - a loving wife and a family of children growing up. Like any other young man in his right mind, I suppose. Like in the story, I too was approached by not just one but two benefactors. Or at least that how I saw them. And like in the story, I too was atheist. The only difference was that it was I who had invited them to a nearby bar - to get out of the rain - and bought them drinks. But in the warmth of the saloon bar table, they did open a Bible and showed me the appropriate Gospel verses, mainly in the Gospel of John and perhaps oddly enough, in the book of Revelation too (3:20). Then I knew that it was God who brought this two young guys to me. It was from this moment of believing in divine providence that I was acquitted, justified (imputed with the righteousness of God) and became a newborn babe in Jesus Christ.

That the conversion in that bar off the Strand in Central London was genuine was confirmed, I believe, some seven years later in 1978, when I had some free time in Downtown Los Angeles, strolling through Pershing Square with its central fountain whilst preparing for the overnight Greyhound Bus trip to San Francisco. It was near here that I was approached by two pretty young females who eventually encouraged me to visit a Christian church which was holding a meeting at a certain address which was nearby. We entered the building through the door facing the street, and climbed a flight of steps which led into a fair sized upper room full of young people. Presently, a thin, spindly man sporting a moustache and goatee began to deliver his lecture. However, there was nothing edifying about his preach, something which raised my concerns. So I confronted him and looking directly at him, I asked what he thought about Jesus Christ. Did he come in the flesh? That means: Was he crucified, buried, and on the third day rose physically from the dead? The lecturer could not answer. Instead, he summoned another guy to escort me out of the room, down the stairs, and out onto the street. It was a lucky escape.

In 1978 I was on guard. A contrast to Ronald Coyne, upper.

A very lucky escape. For this particular group was not a Christian church at all. It was the cult of the Moonies, better known as the Unification Church of God, founded by the late far Eastern entrepreneur Sun Myung Moon, who arrived into the States from his birthplace in North Korea a few years earlier in 1972, and who was also a firm supporter of President Richard Nixon, especially during the Watergate scandal which caused the President to resign before his term was through. You can read my other blog on this experience which gives greater detail by clicking here - Signs of the Times. (But do finish this one before clicking on the link!)

Supposing that I was in the same spiritual situation as that beggar in Cambridge, assuming that he was an open-minded enquirer of the Christian faith? And was approached by the same two women in the same way I was approached in 1978? Instead of being on guard to test the spirits, instead I would have been sucked in to undergo a strict recruiting process at some remote location. From Los Angeles, this would have been at a mansion miles away in remote mountainous country somewhere in California, making any attempt to escape very difficult if not downright impossible.

But it was God himself who rescued me from this cult through faith in Jesus Christ. It's the power of the Holy Spirit within me to enable me to "test the spirits to see whether he is of God or not" (1 John 4:1), and when I found him wanting, it was through the grace of God that had me escorted out of the building. This is the very same kind of faith that this beggar is in dire need of, and not the arrogant, childish behaviour of a snooty, over-educated ex-Public schoolboy, who has never experienced hardship, let alone poverty, and has a very dim view of the valuable things in life - smart dress not withstanding.