Travel Biography - Week 34.

Ortigia island, Siracusa.

Although I have tended to visualise Siracusa as the New Town on the mainland, and the island of Ortigia as the Old Town, the Neapolis Archeological Park, dating back to the ancient Greek culture around 2,500 years ago, is located on the mainland. For example, the modern apartment blocks lining Corso Gelani are just across the road from the Neapolis with its 2,500-year-old Greek theatre, and nearby, there is a modern hospital, along with civic administrative buildings.

By contrast, Ortigia is an island off the mainland, separated by a very narrow strait. From the air, the waterway looks so much like a wide canal, one would be convinced that mainland Siracusa and the island of Ortigia were once a continuous peninsula before it was cut straight across. Two road bridges link the island to the mainland. Arriving in Ortigia from Siracusa, especially on the Corso Umberto, one is faced by a large archaeological site, the remains of the Temple of Apollo. Small excavated areas are also found in the middle of the street, yet they don't hinder the flow of traffic.

Ortigia is separated from the mainland by a strait.

Although the entire island is surrounded by water, there were no beaches. Instead, a wall enclosed the island entirely, with the Mediterranean lapping gently at the base of the wall. Since the Med doesn't have tides, the water level remained constant throughout. In 1982, from Port Victoria Emanuelle on the west side of Ortigia, a small ferry carried foot passengers to the port city of Valencia in Malta (with the car ferry setting sail from Catania.) Unfortunately, I never took the opportunity to board the ship due to the tightness of funding, lack of time, or both. Besides, I was happy just to be in Sicily itself. 

The streets of Ortigia, unlike in mainland Siracusa, were laid during Medieval times and therefore tend to be narrow. However, there was a widening of one street, Via Saverio Landolina, into the Piazza Duomo. This was fronted by the Duomo di Siracusa, that is, the Church of the Birth of the Virgin Mary, and the seat of the city Archdiocese. I remembered sitting inside the duomo. Although built in the 7th Century AD, it's actually founded on an ancient Greek Temple of Athena, itself built in the 5th Century BC. Surrounding me were the original columns of the Temple, left there when the church was built some 1,200 years later.

I sat inside for a while until an escorted tourist group entered, and the ranger disturbed the silence as he began to narrate to his group. Although I could see that I was in his way since I was already seated at that spot, he had no power even to ask me to move, and so, he continued his discourse in the central aisle and in my presence.

Many residents of Ortigia sat outside their front doors and neighbours chatted with each other, with groups lining the street as they sat outside their homes. All that has made me feel that I'm indeed in a foreign country, with a culture so different to ours in Britain. Here in Sicily, the Mediterranean climate brought these residents outside to chat casually, whilst our British cool temperate climate keeps the Englishman confined within his home he calls his castle.

One warm evening, as I was strolling through Ortigia, I arrived at the Piazza Duomo, to see a live band playing directly opposite the cathedral, and apparently a public street party. The event was orderly, the people were enjoying themselves and, as I could see, there was no alcoholic abuse, no sign of any drunkenness, no bare torsos, and no vomit on clothing or the ground. Instead, a large group of mostly young men were dancing the Conga to the music from the band.

As I approached the rotating circle of young men, each with both his hands resting on the shoulders of the one in front, one of them who was nearest to me beckoned me over to join the dance. I was happy to and joined the rotating human circle that spanned the width of the square under the beat of the music.

However, I was struck by the absence of women. Yet, all the young men looked happy, contented, and fully committed to the dance. But, at least in 1982, this was the culture of the region. And that was when I was glad to be single and not have a girlfriend. This was a culture where many, if not all, dating couples were accompanied by a chaperone, sometimes the girl's brother or sister, or even the girl's uncle, aunt, or father himself.

A Visit to Taormina

I believe that one of the most spectacular resorts in the whole of Europe is Taormina, north of Mt Etna. The town is built on a mountainside, starting with the Spiaggia di Isola Bella, or Beautiful Island Beach, and with a cable car up the mountainside to the town centre. Even from the town, the commune of Castelmola reaches 529 metres towards the sky about a mile inland from the town, and I managed to hike uphill to this village. Resembling a molar tooth when seen from both the beach and the town centre, the streets were so narrow that all motorised traffic was banned. And so, I spent a whole day at Taormina after boarding a train at Siracusa Station early in the morning. The day included a swim in the sea before exploring the town centre and then Castelmola. The day also took in a visit to the Greek Theatre, although most of the ancient masonry making up the theatre was Roman.

The Greek Theatre, Taormina, 1982.

My surname is very common in Italy. Taormina, 1982.

Castelmola offered fantastic views of Taormina and the Sicilian coastline, especially of the tiny isle which gave the beach its name. The privately owned islet was connected to the beach by a sandy causeway which was barely above the water level. Just above the level of the beach but below the height of the town, the Messina-Siracusa railway line passes through one tunnel after another as it heads south, passing along Naxos Beach, skirts the base of Mt Etna before passing through Catania Station on its way to Siracusa.

Palermo and the Catacombe dei Cappuccini.

I spent at least a week in Siracusa before vacating my hotel room to board a train to Palermo, the capital city of Sicily. In 1982, there were two ways to travel to Palermo from Syracuse. The "proper" way was to take an express train and change trains at Messina for the Palermo branch which runs along the northern coast of the island. Alternatively, there was a slower, more scenic route cutting through the middle of Sicily, stopping at the inland town of Caltanissetta before proceeding to Palermo. I chose the latter route, changing trains at Catania.

The train eventually pulled into Palermo Terminus by early evening, and I found a suitable hotel to stay in for the next three days.

I wasn't so impressed with Palermo as I was with Siracusa and the east coast of Sicily. As I saw it, the capital was like most others, a sprawling city with a large international port with ships sailing to Tunisia as well as other ports such as Naples, Cagliari, and Civitavecchia. However, there was one place of interest which stood out, the Catacombe dei Cappuccini, over a mile west of Central Station. 

I have already visited the Catacombs of St John in Siracusa, and now I'm about to visit the underground crypt of a church that was used as a resting place for the faithfully rich, all placed there by the Capuchin monks approx between the years 1600 and 1920 AD. Within a couple of years later, I visited the equally macabre Paris Catacombs. All three were underground. Furthermore, I was alone in all three burial sites.

But it was the Catacombe dei Cappuccini that not only impressed me but shocked me into the reality of life and death. Believe me, it's not the place for the squeamish, the fearful or with a nervous disposition.

I arrived at the church (having already known about the catacomb long before 1982) and I paid the entry fee. I then went downstairs into the church crypt. There were a few people in there to start with, but they soon left altogether, and I found myself alone in this subterranean vault.

The walls all around were lined with well-preserved corpses, many standing upright, others lying horizontally. There were several corridors, all lined with these dead bodies, many of them staring straight at me as I walked past and looked up at them. There was only one public notice, and each was fastened in each corridor, VIETATO FUMARE, the signs shouted. Okay, I fully understand why smoking was prohibited, such pollution gotten from tobacco would have been detrimental to the corpses. But there were no signs forbidding photography, as there are at present. Therefore, I felt free to take pictures, like I did at the Catacombs of St John, without any awareness of breaching the rules.

Although I wasn't aware at the time, I later learned that there was a reputation that these corridors were haunted by the discarnate souls whose bodies were on display they once inhabited. However, there was no supernatural incident whilst I was down there, yet the vaults weren't entirely silent. Rather, a fan was blowing through an air vent, and one of the hinged covers had worn loose. As the air current was circulating, there was this constant clunk, clunk, clunk, clunk - a continuing rattling of metal against masonry, powered by the air current. But to me, in this morbid environment, the sound of a fully functional air fan also reminded me that the world of living is just above the ceiling.

However, there is a legend many visitors may not be fully aware of. It concerns one of the bodies standing upright in one of the corridors. On one occasion, this deceased individual fell from his place in the corridor to land directly on a passing visitor, almost as if the dead actually leapt on the living. The figure was put back in its place and chained in for greater stability.

The individual in the centre fell on a passing visitor.

They grinned as they stared down at me...

This guy, I felt a special affection for.

General view of one of the corridors. 1982.

So you can ask, or even I should ask myself: What is this obsession with the morbid, the macabre, the mortal? and that's not confined to the catacombs I had visited on the Continent, but the most interesting gallery in the British Museum in London is the Egyptian mummy gallery. In the last blog, just before I started this Travel Biography series, I wrote about how I spoke softly to one of the Egyptian mummies on display at the museum. I think such an obsession - if that's what it is - is borne from my upbringing. By not doing well at school to my parent's satisfaction, pride and joy, I held low self-esteem.

Church life, rather than allowing me to grow my faith in Christ, instead, turned out more of an emotional hindrance by mixing with graduates who shared my age. Deep in my mind, and with little verbal expression, I have wondered just how proud the parents of these graduates must be, the joy felt over the upbringing of their offspring, to see them off to University, and then to see them land useful careers with a respectable income. And then watching them find girlfriends, marry, and have children while I remain sitting alone on a shelf with my legs swinging alternatives back and forth like a child.

Looking up at those corpses as they gaze back down at me has shocked me into the reality of eternity. There is something terribly wrong with God's plan of Creation! Mankind was never created to end up in such a sorry state. Yet there they are, on display for us to look at, think, meditate, and find a rationable reason, which is the entry of sin into the world, and through sin, death. And to kill off any argument that a person is evaluated by his level of social status, his education, his wealth, his family background or his occupation. Indeed, the emperor and the humble worm both share the same fate.

I make my way back to the hotel with my mind spinning. Ah, that is what travel is all about.

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Next week: The start of the journey home.

Stop the World, I Want to Get Off.

If you are a Londoner or have lived in London, or one who commutes to London, or even a tourist, and you have stood at a typical Transport for London bus stop, do you stand, or have you ever stood, and waited for a ridiculously long time while no bus arrives? Then three or four suddenly turn up, one behind the other, and each for a different destination? Why this happens I don't really know, but one theory is that these buses have adopted the "safety in numbers" ethic, for their own protection against predators. At least that was what I experienced a few months ago while I was at Fulham, West London, and simply wanted to jump onto a specific bus after taking a wrong direction on foot.

Perhaps this week has been a little bit like that when it comes to our national culture. For weeks or even months, nothing specific occurs. Then just one or two days apart, the media comes up twice with something rather extraordinary. And I found both of these rather amusing, not annoying - as any reader who knows me well enough might have expected me to react.

The first published incident took place at an Oxford suburb. There a street was resurfaced. But only one half of its length. The posh end. The working class end of the street remained untouched, according to the media, and subjected to pothole damage. Many of the residents didn't like that, and someone sprayed the words CLASS WARFARE on the newly tarmacked surface using a paint spray can.

What's so extraordinary about this incident and the cause of such a fuss is that the line of demarcation - where the resurfaced area came to an abrupt end - happens to be opposite a circular plaque commemorating the exact spot where a wall, topped with spikes, once stood, dividing the street into two distinct halves, denying direct access each way, whether it be by vehicle or on foot.

During its 25-year history, the wall had a somewhat turbulent existence. It was first built by the Council at the request of wealthy businessmen who resided at an estate of privately-owned homes, with the intention of a complete segregation from the neighbouring Council estate of rented social housing tenancies. First erected in 1934, it was then demolished by the Council in 1938 against legal advice. But shortly afterwards, the original builders successfully sued the Council, and the wall was rebuilt. However, during World War II, a tank on a practice run damaged the wall, which was quickly restored. It was not until March 1959 when the wall was permanently removed, after a purchase the Council had made for the land in 1956.

I was already six years old when the wall finally came down. But supposing I was born just five years earlier in 1947, and my parents lived in that street? Being working class, we would most certainly have lived on the council estate side of the wall. With Mum and Dad being fervent Labour voters (as with the majority of voters in the estate), I would have felt befuddled over why such segregation exists. To answer my curiosity, Dad would have explained that on the other side of the wall, all the houses there are privately-owned homes owned by wealthy, Tory-voting businessmen and professionals with a high income, rich enough to buy their own homes, unlike us who have to pay rent to our Council landlord.

Then I would have asked why did we build the wall in the first place. He then would have corrected me, insisting that the divide was not our idea at all. Rather it was done on the wishes of those living on the other side. It was they who wanted the wall built because to allow integration would have reduced the value of their properties. It might have taken a further few years before realising that the mere presence of such a dividing wall implies that there is something terribly wrong with our so-called National Christian culture.

Supposing that I attended Sunday School and learned something about the Bible and the life of Jesus Christ. Whoops! I have hit an obstacle already. The Church of England? Very unlikely. My parents would have explained to me that the Church of England is really the Tory Party on its knees, and therefore I can't belong. Besides, I'm a Roman Catholic. Another division within Christianity which would have mystified me. So let's suppose I went to a Catholic school. There I would have learned about the homeless Jew gathering twelve followers, including a taxman, a political revolutionary, an intellect (who eventually betrayed him), and some fishermen. If there was some invisible barrier existing between the fisherman and a taxman for example, then Jesus surely knew how to demolish it.

And there were the school days of the 1960's. Morning assembly, which was based on Church of England liturgy, was all about a remote, punitive God who might have had some vesting interest in a congregation of smartly-dressed wealthy parishioners, but with a cane-wielding Deputy Head leading the 'worship' - if it can be called that - then all it produced was a school filled with agnostics and atheists, the latter especially among the boys.

And here is the irony. During the 25 years when the wall stood, a far greater percentage of the local population regularly attended church each Sunday, both Anglican and Catholic alike. Never mind that there was hostility between the two denominations. The way it looked, as church attendance was at its peak, so the class divide was at its most severe as if there was a link between the two. And there was a far greater likelihood that the majority, if not all, who attended church lived on the posh side of the wall.

At a typical Church of England service, a special prayer was always said on behalf of the monarch, as at present, the Queen is head of the State church, so a request to God on behalf of the Queen was delivered as part of the liturgy. This too is quite ironic. Well, considering that the monarch being head of our State church came to be from a dispute between King Henry VIII and Pope Clement VII. This had arisen because the King was refused permission for a divorce from his first wife Catherine of Aragon. Poor Catherine! She couldn't give her husband a son and heir, so he thought:
Stuff the Pope! I'm going to do things MY way! From now on, I'LL be head of the Church here in England! Like this, I can divorce and marry whom I want!

So he thought better to dump her and marry somebody else. The result was five more weddings with two of his wives sent to execution. Pretty grim stuff. And so, ever since his reign, the average Anglican gives special honour to the monarch as both Head of State and Head of the Church of England, with the idea that she is the intercessor between the congregation and God. Therefore it came to no surprise that here in the UK, personal titles matter so much. Because the higher status the title holds, the closer to the Monarch's status it becomes. For example, if a passport holder had the title Reverend before his name, he would have enjoyed greater travel privileges than the rest of the population.

Such I could imagine among those who live on the posh side of the wall. Job titles matter. Occupations bearing the title Accountant, Architect, Banker, Civil Engineer, Clergyman, Doctor, Journalist, Marine Biologist, Scientist, Writer, along with many other professions, all would have insisted on the wall separating them from the low-down plebs - Bricklayers, Carpenters, Cleaners, Dustmen, Electricians, Joiners, Mechanics, Plumbers, Welders, Yard Labourers, along with any other job which involve getting dirty hands, all confined to this side of the wall, with no access allowed either way.

Which leads to the second item brought up this week by the media. That is when a female passenger boarding a Qantas airline complained on Twitter that a crew member referred to her as Miss instead of Doctor. She threw a tirade. I have not studied for eight years at university just to be called Miss, she complained. I am a Doctor of Philosophy.

The response from the public was intense. She received around 4,000 comments, nearly all deriding her complaint. Many of them commented that only those who qualified in the medical profession are referred to as Doctors. Others have said that her qualification is hardly worth the paper its printed on. Still, others have dramatised the pilot asking: Is there a Doctor on board? There is a passenger with cardiac arrest! Perhaps it ought to be: There is a case of a sudden heart attack on board. Is there a Doctor of Philosophy flying with us?

Having said that, I can point to a very good friend of mine, Andrew, who holds a PhD in Genetics. Although his title is Doctor rather than Mister, I hardly hear him use his title when addressing himself. Furthermore, there is absolutely no wall or any form of social or spiritual barrier between us. Instead, we (Andrew, Alex and myself) have spent a weekend away together before now, we have gone on days out together, and we will soon spend a long weekend away together to attend a Creation Ministries Conference.

On the contrary, her attitude and apparent insult of being titled with Miss instead of Doctor by a member of the cabin crew shows that the social dividing wall is still very much in existence right up to this day. The only difference is that it dwells in the heart instead of being built across the street. But it could still have a devasting effect, especially in a church fellowship where the testimony of Christ can be destroyed in the eyes of the beholder. My own church experiences testify of this. For example, the proverb, An Englishman's home is his castle is definitely unbiblical. It goes against the teaching of Christ who has encouraged hospitality towards the stranger, the poor and desolate (eg. Luke 14:12-14, 1 Peter 4:8-9). Many of the Hindus in India, so I read, don't find this to be a problem, especially among the poorer, yet over here it is a problem, a big problem, especially among Christians.

Many middle-class Christians have built a wall in their hearts that makes them feel uncomfortable with fellowshipping with believers of a different social standing or even a different theological opinion. There is even a church couple who has blocked their Facebook profiles from me browsing them because of our differences. The word block is appropriate. The wall built across the street had also blocked access, causing division and segregation. And the trouble is, this Britishness is found in any church I would go to. And only a couple of years ago I visited twelve different churches, all within an hour's train journey from my home. And they were all the same. My church is by no means unique.

Oh, how we need a mighty move of God in our lives, I included. When Abraham saw the glory of God, he saw himself as dust and ashes. When David compared himself with God, he saw himself as a flea, the smallest creature seen with a naked eye. When Isaiah saw the glory of God filling the Temple, he cried out,
Woe is me, for I am undone. For I am a man of unclean lips, and I dwell among a people of unclean lips. Yet I have seen the King, the Lord of Glory.

Only a revelation of the glory of God can really change our lives. I myself long for the glory of the Lord. Sure, the conviction of sin will hurt, but the glory of God revealed will bring lasting hope. And all the churches in the UK and worldwide need this same revelation - to break out of the upbringing which can be so restricting, and be set free to really live - to live for the glory of God.

The sad alternative is that I find all this quite a distressing situation. It is a culture, to be honest, I'm sick and tired of! But until God reveals his glory, or calls me home, I have to live with it. Or should I cry out:
Stop the world, I want to get off...

A Job with Glamour...?

Alan was one person I always admired. Although I have changed his name to protect his identity, his real name had made it into our local newspaper. And not for any negative reasons, but for good reasons. For Alan was one of the lifeguards at Coral Reef Waterworld. Yes, the same venue which was the main subject of my last blog, Down the Tube. But Alan's time at Coral Reef, long before the renovation, was probably around the years 2007-2010 or thereabouts, according to memory. It does not really matter precisely what years Alan worked as a poolside lifeguard. What matters to me more was his achievements.

Coral Reef Leisure Pool

Alan was exceptionally good-looking with a slim but superb physique, to which I was called to attention by Alan himself as he was taking a shower following further training and prior to going on duty. I said to him that I looked just like that during bygone days, as I made my way to Sauna World, housed in a building of its own reserved for the over-18's, but still fully attached and accessible to and from the main pool. But despite our huge age difference, I could not help myself going weak at the knees in reverence. As I had always perceived, there is an element of glamour in being a lifeguard.

Alan was friends with a colleague named Scott, a fellow lifeguard whose employment at Coral Reef Waterworld began some time after Alan's, but by overlapping, enabled him to be on duty at the same time as Alan, at least for a short while. It was after the end of another Saturday sauna session during one mid-afternoon that I had the opportunity to talk to this person whilst he was sitting on a lookout tower overlooking the pool. The height and location of the tower was right next to the upstairs restaurant balcony, thus making conversation not only possible but without any difficulty. After sharing with Scott of my own experience as a poolside lifeguard in 1973, he explained that lifesaving techniques has evolved since then, to the point of being near to the level of a paramedic, and therefore leaving my former life-saving techniques obsolete. In fact, according to his testimony, if a vehicle accident occurred on the main road just outside, the lifeguards were duty-bound to attend to the victim's injuries until the paramedics arrived. They were that qualified.

With such updated information, it was no surprise that Alan's personal achievement caused me to look to him with a degree of reverence - something I cannot bring myself to do to an employee dressed in a suit and tie and sitting at an office desk. Because Alan became Lifeguard of the Year, the highest award and the top rung of the ladder attained by vigorous training and testing, both in and out of the water. And the announcement of this was published in our local newspaper, The Bracknell News, complete with pictures.

However, although Alan does have a Facebook profile, he had never allowed me to be "friends", or to have our profiles linked, which reason might have something to do with our age difference. But he has made enough of his posts set to Public, for me to build a picture - sketchy as it might be - even if he had not posted publicly for the past twelve months. He left Coral Reef Waterworld a few months after gaining his award to take a sabbatical, before beginning to drive a van for a living. Not long after this, he took on a post at Waitrose, a superstore favouring towards the upper-middle class side of the market. Since I cannot imagine such a well-trained lifeguard swapping his profession for a job in shelf-stacking, nor for that matter, for sitting at the checkouts, I can only imagine his role in management or departmental supervision.

It was this sabbatical he took which, I will admit, turned my admiration into envy. Because on that cold Monday morning in January 2010, while I had to take a break from window cleaning in the blowing cold wind, Alan with his mate, also a lifeguard at Coral Reef, along with their girlfriends, were heading to Heathrow Airport to board a flight to Singapore. From Singapore, they would proceed to Australia, then to New Zealand, and then to California, to cover a duration of between five to six months. Damn it! I felt the cold wind eat into me as I sat on a low wall, my ladder lying on the sidewalk waiting to be used. And I envisioned the joy and excitement those four must have felt as they took their seats in the Boeing 747, still parked at the loading bay. But at least I was able to comfort myself with memories of my own Round-the-World backpacking trip in 1997, covering Singapore, Australia, and California. Yet Alan has still beaten me by including New Zealand into his itinerary, as well as a longer duration out of the UK.

Never mind that news came in that whilst Alan was speeding in his hired camper van, he was stopped by the Police Down Under for speeding, and he was obliged to pay his penalty. Never mind that their visit to the Great Barrier Reef did not seem to hold a candle to my own visit some thirty months earlier. Never mind that their photos sent to Facebook were predominately about dancing and skylarking about on the Pacific beach, rather than the more "serious" sightseeing of the corals and tropical marine life, the beauty of nature, the mangrove trees and other exotic vegetation, and of human history. Their Round-the-World sabbatical was still an envy for someone stuck in a mundane outdoor job on a cold January Monday morning.

Then as I thought of my long-lost friend, I began to look through his profile timeline. And as I did so, I begun to feel my emotions sink. I began to feel very sad for him - and that despite his apparent present success in raising a family of his own and looking to be doing well for himself. Because of the casual use of foul language in his posts depicting the vanity of life without a real purpose for living. That alone tells me a lot. A lot more about himself than he could possibly imagine. Because, as one author wrote many years ago:

I told her to get lost. She replied, "You're the one who is lost." She was right, I was lost. The word screamed in my head. LOST! LOST! LOST!*

And that is exactly I can perceive this magnificently-trained lifeguard. Lost. His Facebook posts can be so revealing. Little wonder I felt sad. Very sad for him. And it was a similar set of circumstances which caused me to cry out one night, Lord God, why, oh why did you create us?

It is the sort of question I do ask: How can someone like Alan, who has been trained up to save other people's lives, be in the same fold as Adolf Hitler, who is guilty of the murder of six million Jews? And again, where is the reality of God reconciling the world to himself in Jesus Christ without counting their trespasses against them, according to 2 Corinthians 5:19 - if all I can see around me is a lost world unable to find itself?

At least I can say that there is no record of Alan ever disliking me. I do recall him having a level of respect for me as a customer at Coral Reef Waterworld, and maybe even as a kind of father-figure, but definitely no dislike. But as I read down his timeline column on his profile page, and see how he sees his own life as so futile, I can't help feeling that my heart goes out to him. I would very much like to see his life perfectly fulfilled in Jesus Christ, and for him to know that he has eternal life.

This is distressing. Because it all boils down to this: We as true believers in Jesus Christ, are the living letters from God to the rest of the world, along with the beauty of Creation, and of the Bible itself. I suppose there are three witnesses - the Church/Israel, Nature, and the Word. How the incorrigible human heart rejects Creation for Evolution, turn the Bible into a myth, insist that Israel shouldn't have a place in the Arab land of Palestine, sees the Church as something of a standing joke, and perceives salvation, if it exists, as something to be worked for and earned. As for the churches, what went wrong?

So horribly,

Horribly

Wrong?  

Could it be l lack of love for each other? Already I have said, not everyone in my church loves me as a person and a brother in Christ. This grieves me, it grieves me badly. I'm disliked - not because I deny Christ. I don't deny Christ. That is something I will never do. I doubt whether this is something I'm able to do. Neither am I an imp of Satan, although I'm seen as wicked. Instead, I'm disliked because I don't present myself as an ideal Englishman - well educated, stoic, self-reserved, refusing to hug, holding a profession, a Conservative voter and a Royalist, a lover of the Queen and her family members. Oh yes, I can add: Good at team sports and ready to go to war for his country. As a result, I tend to be shut out from social circles. Like the time in 1978, when I asked a group of my own age if I could join them on a week-long boating trip. I was told flatly, No. Or the occasions I was told with quite an angry tone, Someone is sitting here! - which might not have been necessarily true. Or the viscous snide, You're not sitting at this table! Or more recently, at the start of the church Men's Curry Club one evening a couple of years ago when I was told to move in a threatening manner. And this comes from an Arminian who insists that a believer, after Christ has cleansed him from all his past sins, can only hold on his salvation by hard work and keeping of all the Commandments.

Just a minute! As I'm reading through the book of Acts of the Apostles, and I can hear the leaves of the trees rustling. After Paul the Apostle returns to Jerusalem, he is fervently persecuted by his own fellow Jews. His own brothers, all sons of the same Abraham, are baying for his blood. And the reason is simple. It's not that complicated. Paul believed in salvation through faith in the risen Christ alone. The Jews believed that salvation can only come through obedience to the Law of Moses, including the need for circumcision. I can see a parallel, a chilling parallel in the unholy attitude among the Jews towards Paul and among those who has taken a dislike to me. In the case of the latter, it is my failure to think, feel, say, and act like a proper Englishman. Or at least that's how it looks. Instead, I hold diverse opinions, rebellious opinions, and I guess I get a thrill in lowering my head and pushing hard whilst kicking against the goads of national and cultural hypocrisy. 

What does Alan sees in the church? After all, he was brought up in a country which Constitution was borne out of the Christian faith. So he is most likely Church of England, or possibly a Roman Catholic. But without the revelation that God loves him unconditionally, he will forever have that veil across his eyes. The deceptive veil of a truculent God who always quick to judge everything he does, right down to his innermost thoughts. A divine being who is never satisfied, but insists on works, impossible works, in a failed attempt to bribe for his love, whatever love that is supposed to be. The very same problem I still suffer myself to this day, due to Roman Catholic upbringing. The difficulty in accepting God for whom he really is. A God of Love, who loves us unconditionally. The love God had for Barabbas to the extent that he allowed his own Son to take his place in Pilate's execution. At Pilate's Court of Justice, God loved Barabbas. He loved him so much that he was set free instead of executed. No, it wasn't the baying for his life by the crowds below which had released him. Rather it was God's LOVE which released him!

God is love. It was his love which satisfied his justice which demanded an accounting of every sin committed. Jesus Christ, nailed to a cross, has fulfilled that justice. In his love, God wants to give us eternal life. Eternal life through his Son. To believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead. That is all. It's about time every church drops it's national heritage and advocate God's love a lot more. Preach it, act upon it, live it! There is absolutely nothing wrong in a man giving a tight, prolong hug to another man! It will make him feel loved, accepted, one in the family. It lifts the spirits, it also enhances health. And furthermore, there is no work required to earn it. It cannot be earned. God's love is higher than the highest mountain, deeper than the deepest ocean, wider than East is from West. And it's free, unconditional, and has no national or cultural limitations.

Oh, how I wish I took advantage of the opportunity I had during Alan's employment at Coral Reef. My failed attempt to be pleasing to all men, an ethic which can only lead to death. My heart goes out to him. My greatest hope is that someone else will open his eyes to what tremendous love God has for him.

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*Doreen Irvine, From Witchcraft to Christ, 1973. 

What a Weeping Cissy!

A certain man had two wives, which means that under our present law he could be classed as a Bigamist. His first wife was the older of the two, whose weak eyes spoilt her facial beauty. However, his second wife, who turned out to be the first wife's younger sister, was strikingly beautiful, and it was of no surprise that she became her husband's true love, at the cost of his older wife's misery. However, the older spouse successfully gave birth the six of his sons in her desperate but unsuccessful attempt to win her husband's heart, whilst the ravaging beauty remained childless. Even two additional concubines each became mothers of two more of his sons, making a further four in all, totalling ten sons altogether.  

At last, his younger wife gave birth to his son when his firstborn had already grown up. Not long after this, his older wife died prematurely, most likely from a broken heart, and was buried in the family tomb. The man referred to here was Jacob, who was renamed Israel, and to anyone even faintly acquainted with the Bible through Sunday school classes, Jacob's wives were Leah and Rachel. Poor Leah! Enduring a loveless marriage, yet able to give birth to six of his sons, including Judah the fourth-born, who carried the Messianic Line. Rachel at last had given birth to Joseph whilst at middle age. As a result, Joseph became daddy's favourite, much to the jealousy of his older brothers. And this feeling of jealousy towards their youngest brother was not only universally shared, but it also morphed into hatred - especially after cockily revealing to them that he will one day rule over his brothers.

Joseph was around sixteen or seventeen years when he was rewarded with a sibling from his own mother. But this was a bittersweet experience for both Joseph and his father. His favourite wife died at childbirth, and she was buried at a separate location, away from the family tomb. Unfortunately, we are not told when Leah died, but when she did, it must have been close to Hebron where the family tomb, also known as the Cave of Machpelah, is located. However, it was most likely that Jacob was already a double-widower by the time the ten older brothers had sold their teenage sibling to the Midianites, who were heading to Egypt.

What a crush this must have been to poor Joseph! Some time after being sold as a slave to an Egyptian governor Potiphar, the handsome slave was falsely accused of attempted rape by Potiphar's wife, after having her advances and her attempts to seduce him snubbed by him during his master's absence. He was then thrown into prison, what looks to be for an indefinite term. 

Whilst in prison for a crime he didn't commit, such a circumstance could have been a just cause for self-pity, bitterness, or even rage. There was a high likelihood that he was still grieving for his late mother, he misses watching his younger brother Benjamin, whose birth he might well have witnessed, grow up into adulthood, and pondering what his father may be thinking and feeling. Does his father believe that he is still alive somewhere? Or does he believe that he is dead, and therefore grieving for his favourite son? There is no way he can glean such information. But at least he may be comforted by the fact that none of his older brothers would have been aware of his imprisonment. Such thoughts of them gloating over his fate might have been enough to send him over the cliff. Instead, by walking in the Holy Spirit, he knew how to build a good relationship with both the wardens and fellow prisoners alike. 

And so a steward reveals to a troubled Pharaoh about how a dream he had was interpreted by Joseph, and his prediction came true. The former slave was released from prison, and after interpreting Pharaoh's two dreams, he was promoted to Prime Minister, the second in rank after the King himself and therefore just about equal in authority. It was some years later, when a severe famine had struck, when all his ten older brothers arrived to buy grain to take home to their father.

Although Joseph acted stoically during their first encounter, having recognised his brothers, he had emotions which he had to hide from them. This we know, for the narrator slips in the little incident of turning to weep during a brief interval (Genesis 42:24). It could be the thought of his missing brother and his deceased mother which caused his emotions to rise. Or it could be just the presence of his own family in a strange and foreign land. Whatever it might have been, it was some time later, when his younger brother, who was also the son of Jacob and Rachel, turned up with the others. Here, the narrator does not hold back when he writes, "And Joseph made haste; for his bowels did yearn upon his brother: and he sought where to weep; and he entered into his chamber, and wept there."

Genesis 43:30, AV.

Soon after, the narrator adds, "Then Joseph could not refrain himself before all them that stood by him; and he cried, Cause every man to go out from me. And there stood no man with him, while Joseph made himself known unto his brethren.

And he wept aloud: and the Egyptians and the house of Pharaoh heard."

Genesis 45:1-2, AV.

It goes on, "And he fell upon his brother Benjamin's neck, and wept; and Benjamin wept upon his neck.

Moreover he kissed all his brethren, and wept upon them: and after that his brethren talked with him."

Genesis 45:14-15, AV.

Here is one of the most powerful rulers of Egypt, next to Pharaoh himself, yet he had no qualms about weeping in company. If God has ever been wise on how to bring out love, pity and affection from others, it is in the form of shedding tears, especially in the company of loved ones. I have always admired this particular Bible character because of this alone. Two more characters I can think of who also had no qualms weeping in company. One of these is the apostle Paul. He was the apostle to the Gentiles, used mightily by God to spread the Gospel to non-Jews across the Roman Empire and founded churches in his known world. With leanings towards a work-loving Choleric temperament, Paul had the natural ability of a strong leader, determined, courageous, and tend to persevere undaunted in his task, regardless on how difficult it might be or what obstacles he may face in his determination to finish his project. But of what he naturally lacks was compassion for the more timid, as well as being prone to anger. A striking example of this was when he came to blows with his best mate and partner Barnabas, recorded in Acts 15:36-41. The disagreement was over John Mark quitting from his role in their mission and returned to Jerusalem, which is recorded in Acts 13:13. Unlike Barnabas, with his gentle nature and willing to give John Mark another chance, Paul couldn't stand quitters, so he refused to have John Mark accompany them for the next mission.

Another example of Paul's short fuse is recorded in Acts 23:3 where he stands before an accusing Sanhedrin. A priest strikes him on the cheek, to whom he responds: May God strike you, you whitewashed wall! Then not to leave out Paul's contention with Peter for his hypocrisy shown before Gentile believers eating at table, recorded in Galatians 2:1-14, when Peter, Barnabas, among other Jews, suddenly withdrew from the table when news arrived that devout Jewish believers sent by James were due to arrive at any moment.

Then comes this verse, even if it's the only one of its kind coming from Paul's pen. It is 2 Corinthians 2:4 where he writes that, "For out of much affliction and anguish of heart I wrote unto you with many tears; not that ye should be grieved, but that ye might know the love which I have more abundantly unto you." There is one other verse which testify of Paul's tears, and it's recorded by Luke in Acts 20:31, which reads, "Therefore watch, and remember, that by the space of three years I ceased not to warn any one night and day with tears." 

The public showing of emotion by someone like Paul is very much out of his natural character! His dominant emotion was chiefly anger, with a general lack of natural love, affection and compassion. And so to read of his post-conversion life as one shedding tears in public for the benefit of fellow-believers must be miraculous indeed - someone who had allowed the Holy Spirit to work within him by softening his character for the benefit of those he was to minister to. It is the power of the Holy Spirit to minimise his anger by adding tenderness, along with love and gentleness to his character. As a result, I would not be surprised to see Paul embracing another man as he cries tears on his neck - very much the same way Joseph did over his brother Benjamin.

Then who can forget the shortest verse in the entire Bible? It is John 11:35, which simply says, "Jesus wept." Here is the Jewish Messiah, the Christ, Son of God, Son of Man - weeping in public. An incident noted by all twelve disciples, along with the Pharisees, for they commented on how much Jesus loved Lazarus, who had just died recently and was buried in rock tomb. Of course, Jesus walked in the power of the Holy Spirit without a single fail. He was indeed God manifest in the flesh, and there he was, with the Cross well within his sight, crying like a child over the death of a loved one.

Which brings me to ask: Was Joseph, with his abundance of tears, a cissy? He cried out so loudly over his brother Benjamin that it was heard as far away as Pharaoh's house. Then there was Paul, the determined, hard working, persevering, opinionated, and often angry religious Jew who formerly persecuted Christian believers, rounding them up to bring them into Jerusalem to face prosecution, quite likely execution. He set off on that task with determination. He wouldn't let anything stand in his way while he was on that road to Damascus. So intense was his determination, that the Lord had to literally blind him just to make him see the error of his ways. Then, after that, he testifies of his weeping in public as part of his ministry to edify fellow believers. Had God really changed Paul from a strong, masculine and determined man into a weak, quivering wreck of a weeping Nancy-boy?

Or did God transform Paul into a proper masculine man?

Because Jesus himself was a proper masculine man, yet he had no qualms to cry in public.

And these are the three Biblical characters who had no qualms about showing emotion in public, or even to give a hug. And one of the three happens to be God incarnate. And so I write this blog a week after visiting my former church, which is now the Kerith Centre in my hometown of Bracknell. 

I became a regular member of Bracknell Baptist Church as it was then, in the Spring of 1975, just over two years after conversion. Over the years I have watched people come and go, including witnessing the deaths of many of its older members. And the arrival of new members, especially from 1978 onward, from universities across the country. This was due to several high-tech companies setting up business in our town and began trading here. These companies attracted young graduates as employees, who also began to fill our churches. Some of these graduates are still here with us to this day. And so I have seen when I paid a visit to the Kerith Centre last Sunday, when our own fellowship at Ascot had closed due to many attending West Point Bible Festival near Exeter. And so I was recognised by at least two of them, but not a single greeting, not a question asked how my walk with God is progressing, nor how my wife or family are keeping, or even if I'm enjoying retirement and what I do to occupy my spare time. Instead, just a stone-cold expression on their faces as they went about church business. Not that I was invisible. I wasn't invisible. I was seen. And I was ignored. Thankfully, I did spend some time enjoying a conversation with a couple of other members who had a genuine interest in my welfare. To them I will always be grateful. And having had a rather lengthy chat with one of them, I left the building feeling edified and with a general feeling of acceptance. But had those two had not been there, then I would have been ignored entirely by those who knew me for the past 35-40 years. 

I guess it's a very different environment from Biblical times, when men lived in tents and tended sheep. Our society of today is vastly different from Joseph's day. I realise that. Today we are far, far better educated, far more aware of class, profession, wealth, and status, and quite likely awareness of physical good looks too. And the end result being the cliquey culture, an in-group/out-group basis for acceptance depending on like attracting like. In other words, if you are different, then you're out, ignored, rejected. The trouble with this kind of set up is, if I have a genuine concern for their welfare, their walk with God, health, jobs, etc, then this makes it difficult to break the ice, because of a fear of rejection. This could mean the person whom I approaching turning and walking away, as if I'm chasing him - and believe me, that has happened before now in church! More likely it would mean delivering just one answer - "fine" - and then turning to speak to someone else or engage in a task. 

It is deplorable, coming to think of it. Then I wonder why, in a so-called "Christian Country" maybe up to 98% of the English population are heading towards a lost eternity? Do you realise that this grieves my spirit? Here I'm talking about the influence of Christian believers living in a cliquey, in-group/out-group culture. Say, for example, they arrive here in September 1980. That is 37 years to this day. Such a duration would cover 1,924 sermons preached, one every Sunday. Of course, no one would attend all 1,924 sermons. We have to allow for absences, including holidays, sabbaticals, work rota, illness, family issues, or simply the desire to stay in bed. But with the approaching of two thousand sermons, many of these sermons carrying weighty power, can lives really remain unchanged after all that time? After all, would I be able to distinguish a Christian graduate who is an established church member from another graduate, unchurched and an atheist?

Other than Jesus Christ, I think one of the Bible characters whom I lift my hat in respect has to be Joseph. Despite suffering ill-treatment throughout much of his youth by older brothers consumed by jealousy, he loved them to the end. And he embraced each one of them, and wept over each one of them unashamedly. If I had been there myself, I probably would have wept simply by watching.

There is something about Jesus instructions for every believer to love each other. He taught that this was the only way the world would know that we are his disciples. That we love one another (John 13:35) and to love one another is proof that we are born of God. And sorry to they this, but this godly love does not mean cliques! Neither does it mean listening to sermons every week then forgetting them, either. For that matter, it does not mean being good at the church electronic monitoring consoles either, or to be a good steward with a collection basket. Or to be good at the guitar, keyboard or drums. It means embracing with genuine love and acceptance all with different backgrounds and of all kinds of characteristics and personalities. 

In recent years I was told off by our church elders at Ascot for hugging too much. The main reason given was that hugging is not part of our culture. Hugging is not British. Between men, it's not masculine. It is a crying shame that because we are not physical brothers, we are culture-bound not to show affection. A limp shaking of the hands together with talk about business are acceptable, but not showing affection. 

Indeed, it's a crying shame.

I Stand Alone at Easter

Easter weekend has arrived at last, supposedly bringing a temporary end to the chilly Winter days until they return once again on the approach to Christmas. Unfortunately, as it's always the case here in England, the weekend of warm sunshine was during the previous week, when at last everyone ventured out into the streets, shopping malls, parks, and other attractions free from the heavy overcoats, jackets, scarves, and carrying an umbrella on the ready, all which epitomise public life in general here in the UK. But as I ventured out earlier this morning for my weekly dose of Starbucks cappuccino and a copy of the Daily Mail newspaper, once again the sight of overcoats, jackets, scarves, and the potential of catching sight of an umbrella were back on the agenda. For according to the Met Office, the Easter weekend will actually be chillier than Christmas Day 2016 by about a couple of degrees. Thanks to a persistent polar wind blowing in from Iceland.

But that did not stop the lengthy traffic congestions building up on our motorways and major trunk roads, as British families with characteristic stiff upper lips head for the coast for the long weekend, with full knowledge of the dreary holiday weather. Within many family cars, fathers silently curse the driver of the car in front under his breath whilst mothers attempt to calm their boisterous children with a promise of more Easter egg treats after arrival at their sea-side Bed & Breakfast hotel. Other vehicles stuck in prolonged stationary traffic hide their bored kids at the back seat from the outside world, whilst both parents try to engage them into a game of I Spy, using the first word beginning with "C" - with the five-year-old immediately guessing correctly by submitting his word, Car.

Well-to-do Dads who were not so slavishly addicted to the steering wheel were taking their families to the coast by express train, where without doubt the family would be more relaxed. Promises of more chocolate treats or the need to play I Spy may not have been such a necessity, as the kids, sitting by the window, were enthralled at the scenery as it whizzed past at a speed no car could ever attain, not even illegally. Then there were those who cannot hack the British holiday climate, making their way to the airport. But even here the traffic on the roads leading to the terminals were so congested with like-minded sun-seekers, that some frustrated drivers had literally abandoned their cars for a quicker way to the check-in desk. If there was one crisis that would melt the stiff upper lip to butter and cause the lower lip to tremble in rage and frustration - it's the risk of missing the flight.

And so Easter comes and Easter goes, and the pulse of life beats on. After three months of driving to work and ferrying the kids to school in the cold, wind and rain, Easter is perceived as the gateway for the coming Summer months. Perhaps the egg is the perfect symbol of this. It stands for the beginning of new life when the weather at last warms up, the chick hatch, the trees bud, the daffodils blossom, the sheep in their lambing season - and at last, heavy Winter clothing are once again stored away in the wardrobe and chest of drawers. A time for optimism. But did I leave something out?

According to a You-Gov poll, nearly half of the UK population do not prioritise the Death, Burial, and Resurrection of Jesus Christ as the real reason for the long weekend. Rather, it lies in fourth place after the confection, the long weekend being a statutory holiday and therefore the need to get away. Yet, Easter is meant to be the most important festival in the Christian calender, even more so than Christmas, even if the former lacks the commercial glitter and party joviality which goes with the latter. And for many years I accepted without question that our Lord was crucified, died and was sealed in a rock tomb on a Friday, remained dead all day Saturday, and came back to life before dawn on the Sunday, even though I had found it hard that the total of 38-39 hours of non-life can equal three days - if 3 x 24 hour days adds up to 72 hours. Somehow, even from childhood, the figures did not seem to add up, which caused serious consequences in my perception of God and of the Christian faith. 

This was important to me, even back then. Because even after conversion near to Christmas 1972, I perceived God as loving his Son so much more than he loves me, that he wasn't patient enough to keep his body lying lifeless in the tomb for the full duration of 72 hours, so he cut the time short, so to speak, leaving me with a subconscious conclusion of my unworthiness, and that I had to "complete" the atonement by means of personal merit - something which is actually endorsed by the Catholic Church in which I grew up. To conclude that God loves Jesus much more than he loves me has left me in the state to question whether He loves me at all. Was God's character really like my father's and of the school teachers, who only perceived any act of kindness from me as a means of wanting something? In short, the Friday Crucifixion has made me doubt God's love. 

Then when I began to read the Bible after conversion, sooner or later I came across that one verse in the Gospels, and it was Matthew 12:40, which reads:

For just as Jonah was three days and three nights in the belly of a huge fish, so the Son of Man will be three days and three nights in the heart of the earth.

This verse stands alone in the entire New Testament, there is no repeated statement found in the other three Gospels, nor in any of the letters. Therefore this left me to check out the prophet Jonah and see for myself exactly what actually took place when he fled on board a ship from God's presence. In Jonah 1:17, the narrator states that the prophet was in the belly of a large marine creature "for three days and three nights" - apparently with no qualification for a shorter or longer duration. That is a bare minimum of sixty hours if only a few minutes of either a third day or night is considered. The maximum duration would be 72 hours - if nothing of a fourth day or night is included. And that is why I have considered the late Dave Hunt and the Berean Society he founded, a group committed to "Searching the Scriptures daily to see whether it was so" - as stated in Acts 17:11. In his book, How Close Are We? he advocates a Thursday crucifixion. This means that if Jesus died around 3.00 pm on a Thursday afternoon, was buried, and by dawn on the Sunday he was already risen, then the duration of his death would have been in the region of 63 hours, which is within the acceptable time frame of 60-72 hours, when considering that he was dead during the last three hours of the first day, by the normal reckoning of Hebrew numeracy.*

What does this all mean to me? By accepting a Thursday crucifixion rather than the traditional Friday execution changes everything, especially my perception of God's character and his steadfast love. And that despite that I stand alone in my church and in the wider Christian community. Although I am familiar with three other churches in my own town, plus up to ten other churches within a radius of thirty miles from home, I have not heard a single preach advocating a Thursday crucifixion. However, I did have two Christians at different times and at different places having spoken to me in likely agreement.

All the Elders at my regular church in Ascot believe in a Friday crucifixion. I was there with them yesterday, a Good Friday, worshipping God among a people I love dearly. I don't dispute this matter with the Elders. Instead I submit to them, as the Bible itself recommend. If at the Judgement Seat of Christ, I am asked by God himself why I dared to simplify what he had set up to be a very complex issue, then I will answer this to God alone, and I will not deny my responsibility.

A Thursday Crucifixion changes everything. With this I can be assured that God does what he says he will do. There are no short cuts with him, no renegade on his word. Instead, God's love for the likes of one as myself can be reassured by the keeping of his promises. The beautiful offshoot of such divine character is my assurance of salvation, Eternal Security, Once Saved Always Saved. If the concept of the Friday crucifixion causes me to question the love of God and his assurance of fulfilled promises, then how can I possibly believe in Once Saved Always Saved? Really, I'm beginning to wonder whether there is a connection between the Arminian idea that salvation can be lost with the lack of assurance of God's promises properly fulfilled. But on this issue of a Thursday Crucifixion, I will stand firm, even if all alone.

Just as I will stand alone, if necessary, in believing that both our planet and the entire Universe are no more than six thousand years old, and which came into existence by God's spoken word. Yes, I'm willing to stand alone in this, as I am ready to stand alone with Holy Scripture endorsing the historicity of Adam and Eve, and the Scriptural fact that the Atonement made by Jesus Christ on the Cross was because of the Fall in the Garden of Eden, endorsed as historic by both Jesus himself (Matthew 19:1-12) and by Paul the Apostle (Romans 5:12-21). In short, if Adam and Eve had never existed, then the whole of the Christian faith is fit only for the trash-bin. All the words in the Bible will not be worth the paper they are printed on.

And the same applies to Biblical semantics. I'm willing to stand alone in my conviction that the English word Repent means A change of mind, so verbally demonstrated in Peter's sermon narrated throughout the whole second chapter of Acts. I am ready to stand alone with the historical fact that in the Fourth Century AD, St Jerome mistranslated the Greek word for Repent to a Latin word for Penitence, thus changing God's plan of salvation from simply changing your mind about Jesus being the risen Christ, to the need to forsake sin, which involves works performed to exonerate the believer from his sins, and then to remain faithful afterwards in order to be saved. I will stand with this opinion that the Roman Catholic Church, along with quite a number of Protestant and Reformed churches, were never freed from St. Jerome's mistranslation, even if this great scholar did not make such a error with malicious intent.

And with these things I stand, even if no one takes any notice. And yes, I'm very much used to all that. Thanks to that great psychologist Cyril Burt who, in the early 1940's, composed a theory that innate intelligence could be measured at eleven years of age. This led to the 1944 Education Act, bringing in the eleven-plus exam for all primary school children, thus pigeon-holing every pupil according to how he performed in the test. Bright kids who passed were selected for Grammar School education, followed by University graduation. Those who failed ended up at the Secondary Modern school, back then known as the academic trash-bin, and geared for vocational and manual labour occupations. Ironic, coming to think of it. What I have found to be rather surprising was whilst the Alliance, including the British forces, were up against Hitler's Nazi powers, much time and attention were given over to such matters such as child intelligence and schooling. Of course, not only did I fail the eleven-plus, but came rock bottom, and condemned to sit at the slowest learning class in the whole school between the years 1964 to 1968. This resulted in four years of my life wasted. How come? Because all I received in secondary education was a re-hash of everything I had learnt at primary.

The snag was that if a student fails the exam by just one mark, he would be classed as a failure. Meanwhile, another student just scrapes through, and he would be categorised as a genius, and both go on to their respective schools.  Unless out of a stroke of good fortune, it does not allow for the chance of later mental development. However, I'm very happy to say that conversion to Jesus Christ as Saviour and exploring the Bible and reading it freely has vastly improved my intelligence and academic quality! And I'm not exaggerating. The Christian faith has done more than merely save my soul from eternal loss. It has made me a new man, a better person, here and now.

But this is England, blessed England. A land with its culture where the fate of an individual is determined before his twelfth birthday. Failed the exam? Then I must know my place. And sad to say, most, if not all, of our churches go along with this British culture. For example, fresh young leaders and preachers will always hold a degree. In the whole of the 45 years as a Christian believer, I hardly recall any exceptions. Rather, I do recall the Junior Church department at my home town fellowship, which was staffed by graduates, all of them believing in Evolution. They were most prominent throughout the late 1970's and well into the Eighties. In addition, the Church of England has always relied on the gene pool at Oxford and Cambridge for future leadership. As for Cyril Burt, it takes the opinion of just one doctor to decide the fate of countless numbers of students over the decades, without leaving room for later development of academic ability and intelligence. 

Canterbury Cathedral - Head of the Church of England.

This means that although I'm accepted and loved by my regular church, and even held at a high esteem by at least two of the Elders as well as by some of the students who attend, I doubt that I would ever be given a chance to teach, even though I might have a gifting for it. Some years ago, back in the early/mid nineties, a family suggested that, with my then knowledge of the Bible, I should teach a class, with themselves being willing students. But when I presented the idea to one of the Elders (no longer with us) - he said that this responsibility belongs to someone out of university and therefore better trained. Little wonder that, for a very different reason, he was defrocked by the congregation, and soon afterwards moved across the Atlantic to Florida.

It was to the likes of Cyril Burt that our schooling culture is at it is to this day, with the likes of me remaining unqualified for such responsibilities within the local church, whilst forever watching young graduates take their place at the pulpit or teaching a group. But nevertheless, I make my stand, even if it means standing alone.

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*You can read more on why I believe in a Thursday Crucifixion by clicking here