The Jubilee - A Repub's View.

I once remember walking past the main entrance of London Zoo at Regents Park one afternoon. There were two entrances, the main public gate and a separate one, the Very Important Person or VIP gate. And so, I recall this as we here in the UK are about to celebrate Her Majesty's Platinum Jubilee, marking seventy years on the throne, the longest reign for any monarch in British history.

Meerkats at London Zoo.

Page after page of the right-wing Daily Mail newspaper is splashed with every paraphernalia under the sun about the coming celebrations. The nation is rubbing its hands with excitement, people are preparing for the break from the office, and schools have broken up for the half-term holiday to coincide with the Jubilee. Also, it's now much easier to find a small drawing pin in a giant haystack than to spot a youngster proudly dressed in his school uniform during the holiday break.

I suppose those who believe in Evolution - which, by the way, is the worldview of the vast majority of the British population - are behaving similarly to our cousins, the primates, of which we're supposed to be members. After all, the ape and all its different species have a pecking order when it comes to feeding - with the largest and the strongest taking priority over the choicest portions while the lesser ones have to wait and then be satisfied with what's left. And doesn't that apply to the majority of mammals, especially of the carnivorous kind? Or in the insect world, such as the bee or the ant. The king bee is the only male that can mate and fertilize the queen, who then lay eggs without number, from which both infertile male soldiers and female workers hatch to form a colony. But within each colony, the queen is always treated with greater honour.

And so, each kind and each species of animal gives greater honour to the largest, the strongest, the one which is the leader of the pack, yet, there's no inter-species honour. For example, just as the hyena isn't going to honour or give special treatment to the dominant lion in the pride, nor does the wolf bow in respect to the leader of a troop of monkeys, therefore, our monarch will receive no more attention from any of the caged animals at the zoological gardens in London or from anywhere around the globe.

During opening hours, I can walk through the public entrance gate and buy a ticket at the kiosk, the first structure in view after walking in. But for the Queen or any other VIP, an arrangement is made weeks, even months in advance. Then, on the special day, the park would be closed to the public whilst the Queen and her entourage stroll through the zoo. But as she pauses at each enclosure, would the monkey cease swinging from tree branch to tree branch to bow in obeisance to Her Maj? Or what about the lion, walking frustratingly around in circles with a furrow across its forehead, very much like a man working late into the night on his tax returns? Would it too, bow in honour of our monarch?

Or the fishes in the aquarium? Would they stop swimming around to congregate behind the glass panel? I know that our home pet goldfish does - but not to honour me as its owner and carer, but to be fed. And then the reptile pen. The crocodile remains sedate, sleeping lazily as it normally does in the wild, whilst the Queen pauses to gaze at it. Further on, the snake also sleeps in its coils at a secluded corner of its enclosure, normally hidden from any human eyes, let alone just the monarch's.

But for us humans, maybe we are the end result of Darwinian evolution from molecule to man and from man to a god. After all, no other nation in the world holds such pageantry for our Head of State to such a high calibre that such celebrations can be watched globally. As head also of the Commonwealth, indeed, it's true that her Empire had never seen the sunset. As the sun sets over New Zealand, in Britain, the sun is seen already rising, that is, if it's not raining. And so, the motherland of a one-time Empire metamorphosed into a Commonwealth of former colonies, I wonder whether any of the former colony's indigenous who had never visited the UK had speculated what this great country is really like, especially during the days of the British Empire.

Maybe the motherland is one of glorious beauty, with high, snow-capped mountains, deep forested valleys cut by rivers with frequent waterfalls cascading with a thunderous roar over a high ledge, the frequent warm sunshine reflecting its sunlight off gold-plated palaces and other edifices with beautiful aesthetics delighting the eye of the beholder.

Or, in reality, the dark-brick, soot-covered slum housing in East London, Manchester and many other townships, the derelict redbrick former industries with tall smokestacks that once emitted black, coal-fired smoke into the air, public buildings also covered in black soot, the cool temperate climate bringing dull overcast skies, frequent rain, the pedestrian crouching forward as he's pushing against the cold headwind blowing through the street, back yards crossed with clotheslines with laundry swaying in the breeze as they hang to dry. Gloomy, dark-brick terraced housing with slate rooftops glistening with rainwater and boasting outside TV aerials that tells the world that this family has the latest in black-and-white crackling technology - hence giving a sense of a scientific and cultural superiority over the colonised indigenous.

A derelict factory - the glory of the Motherland.

The worship of the monarch is certainly not new. The ancient Egyptians deified their Pharaohs to the extent of building huge pyramids to serve as their tombs. As divine, after death, the king passes into the heavenly afterlife through the pyramid where his mummified body remains entombed - although whether the three Pyramids of Giza have an astronomical meaning remain the opinion of the experts. After all, not only each of them is aligned with the four cardinal points, but they were also built to align perfectly with the three stars making up the belt of the constellation of Orion. Furthermore, American clairvoyant Edgar Cayce believed that the missing capstone of the Great Pyramid was made of crystal and radiated some form of energy. By heck, if true, then those ancient Egyptians were clever!

I can see a parallel between the ancient Egyptian Pyramid and the pyramidal structure of our British social class system. Starting at the bottom are the underclass - the homeless and the unemployed. Next is the working class, followed by the lower middle, the middle management class, the upper middle, the aristocracy, the smaller group of cross-party MPs, the Government ministers, and finally the Queen as the capstone of the social pyramid. And just like the crystalline pinnacle of the Great Pyramid of old, if such ever existed, she too radiates energy capable of enhancing such loyalty from the majority of our nation to such a high calibre, that such Royal pageantry wouldn't be out of place.

However, I do believe that the love and loyalty the nation bestows on her is well and truly deserved. For seven decades, she has served her country with unwavering loyalty to her duties. And that, despite how providence had at times been unkind. The fire at Windsor Castle in November 1992, the marriage separations experienced by both her sons. First by Andrew from Sarah Ferguson, then Charles from Diana Spencer, and the latter's interview with Martin Bashir that was broadcast on the BBC Panorama in 1995. Then her sudden death in a car accident in Paris, the betrayal by Prince Harry and his wife Meghan, and the recent death of her husband Philip, the lone figure of the Queen at St George Chapel in Windsor tell of her sadness. Yet, despite all that, she stuck well with her duties.

For me, living in a country under a monarchial Head of State is more politically stable than under a President. And that was made more aware after Donald Trump was elected President of the USA in 2016, and more recently, President Vladimir Putin of Russia invaded Ukraine. Here, Putin presents a case in point. Under a presidency, our Head of State might have decided to go to war, but unlike Tony Blair's involvement in the Iraq, Kosovo, Sierra Leone and Afghanistan wars, where only fully trained professionals were dispatched, a president might have introduced mandatory conscription. That means both you and I having to leave our homes, families, and our jobs to go out and fight, even without proper or adequate training. 

Therefore, I can ask: What is my opinion on our monarchial system? Unlike my late father who was a strong Republican and a Socialist, I take a more moderate Republican stand. That is, I have a leaning towards Republicanism without having any hostility towards the Queen or towards other members of the Royal Family, and also, recognising that, as a monarch, she had done an excellent job. Therefore, I can say that it's not the Queen nor the institution that I have any issues with, but to be referred to as a subject of the Queen rather than a citizen of the UK.

The word, subject suggests inferiority. That is, I am an underling to the Head of State, while the word citizen depicts equality. That is, although the President has legal authority over me, nevertheless, he can be voted out of power and replaced with another. By contrast, a Monarch receives his or her power through family heritage, and can only abdicate out of personal choice or be overthrown by a national revolution.

It's this status of a subject that gets to me. I much prefer to be referred to as a citizen of the UK, indicating equality. Maybe it's this status as a subject, depicting inferiority to the Queen, that has a psychological or a subconscious impact on the general mentality towards the Royal Family, which leads to worship. And let's face it, the pageantries I had watched in the past, as well as this one starting in a few days, are all glorified worship, exalting the Queen to divinity whether consciously or subconsciously. And at this point, I'm wondering whether there's a link between these pageantries and the desire for Brexit, along with a desire for a revival of the Empire.

Queen Elizabeth II.

Perhaps it was this lack of desire to worship the Queen that had also made me wonder how I would feel with Jesus Christ as King. Do I imagine him as a stern rule-maker who knows all my thoughts and feelings and who is ready to punish? Or a benevolent, loving God who will purify my heart from all traces of sin and therefore can't help but love me to bits and accept me as I am?

No doubt, it will be the latter option. With my heart purified, all I can do is fearlessly love him to bits. This is quite contrary to an unregenerate, sinful heart. As he dreads judgement and punishment, such a heart would rebel against any form of divine kingship - and would go for someone who would never judge or punish, but has a mother-like attitude who allows her subjects to live the way they want to, providing each remain within the law of the land. Hence the pageantry.

Jesus Christ will one day reign over the whole earth from Jerusalem. And every one of us who will be his subjects will live in love and peace under his banner.

The Moment a Ray of Light Shone

Wednesday of the past week was not untypical, at least for the last few weeks. Feeling depressed as I sat alone in the stationary train at a terminus platform of Reading Station, I watched as the carriage began to fill with other passengers. That is, except at my particular section, which consisted of two rows of triple seats facing each other, in which I remained a sole occupant. People passing through the central aisle seemed to glance at me sitting there, then quickly make up their minds to find other still-vacant seats elsewhere.

Am I imagining all this? Or is there a kind of negative aura surrounding my person in such a way that its affecting everyone who comes too close to its proximity? At last, a middle-age businessman, minus a tie, takes the seat directly opposite to where I was sitting, the two of us facing each other as the train began to pull out of its bay. A little way into the journey, as I looked out of the window towards the sky, he suddenly rose from his seat and moved to a vacant seat on the opposite side of the carriage without alighting at any scheduled stops.

Maybe the fellow has a preference for the more restricted airline seating arrangement fitted at the other side of the carriage. Or more disturbingly, could it be the energy generated by such a negative aura surrounding me to be strong enough to make this businessman decide to move away?

A state of depression. It was as if in the midst of deep darkness, imprisoned within the most gloomy chamber I can imagine. How strong and binding it was. Yet I wasn't even sure what was the cause of such emotions. I just couldn't put my finger on it. It seems that no amount of prayer or meditation can shift it. I was thinking whether I need counselling. Would talking to a stranger really unload my burdens? Yet it has been like this now for several weeks. It is as if something was slowly turning the screw, gradually intensifying the feelings of perpetual sadness, fear and trepidation. To the extent of impairing my judgement. As, for example, while fumbling about with this Blogger page on my laptop, I found myself staring at a prompt highlighted on the screen. I'm sure the prompt read, Comments awaiting moderation. Yes, I have a moderation system in place. This is not to dissuade any form of argument or disagreement with what I have written and posted. Rather, it is to keep off any input or contribution carrying links to other websites promoting product sales.

Seeing so many comments under the heading Comments Awaiting Moderation (so I thought), I clicked the Delete All prompt - then suddenly realised what I have just done. I have literally wiped out every comment that was ever posted on the page, probably numbering up to a thousand. It was a disaster, but one which occurred due to a befuddled judgement caused by constant depression. Not surprisingly, by that Wednesday evening such emotions reached near-panic stage.

We were watching Holby City (a soap based on a fictitious Bristol hospital) when I felt a need for both of us (Alex and myself) to pray, and to pray fervently. After the program ended, we both got down to prayer. Perhaps some 15-20 minutes into praying, a disturbance could be heard coming from one of our neighbours.

My heart fell.

"Someone has scored a goal!" I exclaimed, realising that the match between England and Croatia must have gone into extra time, it being rather late in the evening.

As the banging on the wall continued, I decided to put on some relaxing music to act as a background noise-shield for our praying. But after that incident, I couldn't pray anymore. I felt discouraged, and all I wanted to do was to bury my head into a corner of the sofa, which I actually did. But Alex kept on praying, asking God to help her husband find relief from his ongoing depression. She spent a considerable amount of time pleading to the Almighty on my behalf while the gentle music played. At last, after an undefined period, Alex ended her praying and asked if I can give her some refreshment.

I rose and walked into the kitchen and casually looked out of the window. I had to blink twice. I couldn't believe what I was seeing.

Those two houses on the opposite side of our street. For the last few weeks, giant English St. George flags were draped from the front bedroom windows. I stared at the properties. All the flags had gone! Suddenly it was as if a ray of light had pierced the darkness of my heart. Could it be? Yes, could it be...?

As I was preparing a snack for both of us, for the first time I began to feel my depression lift. But I was very cautious, reasoning to myself on why the flags were down if the World Cup Final is still a few days away. Could it be that such "underdogs" such as Croatia had knocked the mighty and proud Three Lions out of the tournament? Surely, this was too good to be true.

Until I checked the Internet. Sure indeed, the little nation of Croatia had eliminated England during extra time, and the timing of the deciding goal coincided with the disturbance heard from next door. The noise was not of cheering but of disappointment and frustration. By contrast, the depression which had me gripped in its power began to lose its hold, and with great surprise with the result, I began to feel a rush of relief, and for a first time after a long while, a sense of happiness.

The reader can be forgiven for wondering why I was so against England winning the World Cup. Simply this: with Italian origins, I felt threatened. And that despite earlier that evening, before kick-off, I actually posted a wish for England to do well on Facebook, as well as writing last week's blog in support. And there were other times when I spoke positively for our national team. But thinking back, I don't think my heart was in any of this well-wishing rhetoric. Rather it was done to save face if England made it into the Final and won. In other words, a form of self-preservation.

It was during the days following their 2-0 victory against Sweden in the Quarter-final when three words became apparent, according to Media outlets. Those words looking to be most appropriate are proud and arrogant. Over and over again, the phrase Football is coming home was constantly repeated as if a mantra. There was a high level of pride and optimism that the trophy will return home this time. And the semi-final against Croatia? Never mind about that. Croatia is a non-entity, we will wipe them out as easily as a cloth wiping water off a table. After all, what significance has such a small nation in a tournament of giants, with the Three Lions being the greatest giant of all? A giant which was motherland to history's greatest Empire, which remained ongoing for around four hundred years.

And also in a geographical sense, the motherland of the greatest Empire in history happens to be an island off the north coast of mainland Europe. This gives a mentality of isolation and with it the ability to rule from a distance, without the need for international borders which would encourage foreign invasion. The way I picture it, Britain is rather like a schoolmaster standing at a distance from all the young students, facing them and delivering his edict with full authority and a sense of unquestionable individual superiority, without a single student daring to butt in. As I see it, that's how the English have always perceived the rest of the world. One nation leads, the rest follow with subordination. Indeed, such source of pride is steeped in history.

And what pride! What optimism after defeating Sweden! It is as if such a tiny, insignificant nation such as Croatia had no relevance at all. An easy win. Yea! the Final, here we come! And return home with the trophy. Indeed. But God had other thoughts. As written in Scripture I happen to be reading by chance this morning:

For my thoughts are not your thoughts, 
neither are your ways my ways, declares the LORD.
As the heavens are higher than the earth,
so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts.
Isaiah 55:8-9.

And again:

For whoever exalts himself will be humbled, and whoever humbles himself will be exalted.
Matthew 23:12, also Luke 14:11.

Maybe Jesus had a foreknowledge of international football and all the self-exaltation and national glory-seeking which will go with it, even if it's two millennia after his time! Maybe England has a lesson here to learn, what it means to be humble. According to the Oxford Dictionary, the word humble is defined as, having or showing a low estimate of one's own importance. Maybe, who knows, if England had such a characteristic on a national scale, chances that it would have won the Cup several times in its long half-century history of dwelling in the sporting wilderness.

Which leads to thinking. When France beat Belgium in its 2018 semi-final, its fans showed quite a high level of arrogance by causing crowd havoc in the streets of Paris. Could this mean that France will forfeit its chances of taking home the trophy - which would be for the second time since only 1998? Yes, that is possible. But hand-on-heart, I would prefer Croatia to win. At least in its short history, for them it will be the first Cup victory since October 1991, when this small country gained independence from former Yugoslavia.

But at the time of writing, I have just less than 24 hours to find out. If Croatia does win, who knows, perhaps there is further truth in God showing mercy to the weaker side. But if France win - well, God's thoughts and his ways are higher than ours, who can fathom them?

Whichever way the coin will fall, this I know: after prayer that Wednesday evening, a ray of light pierced through the darkness of my heart, and the heavy depression started to lift. I have to wait to see what happens in four years from now.

  

Slain - But Not By George

St. George's Day came and went as expected - without any fanfare, bunting, flags, live bands, let alone any street carnivals, at least, not around my area. As I reclined under the warm sunshine on a sloping grass verge fronting the town's Roman Catholic Church, directly opposite the entrance of the indoor shopping mall, I watched people saunter past in all four directions, with no one, as far as I observed, wearing tee shirts sporting a red cross on a white background. Instead, whether any were in a hurry or not, all had some business to attend, whatever nature such calling would have been, without any hint that this day was meant to be special. Rather it was just another working day.

I guess most countries have their own national days. Even in the United Kingdom, Scotland celebrates St. Andrew's Day; with Ireland it's St. Patrick's; and Wales has St. David - not the ancient King David of Israel around 1,000 BC as I once thought, but a far more recent Bishop of Menevia who was around during the 6th Century AD. But even with these three saints, Andrew, Patrick, and David, a far greater effort has always been made to bring some carnival atmosphere into commemorating their special days. But not for our poor St. George, patron saint of England. As this is being typed right in the midst of a national election campaign to form the next UK Government, all the political parties broadcast their own manifestos, yet only one - the United Kingdom Independence Party, or UKIP for short - promises to make St George's Day a national Bank Holiday.

Not that businesses across England would welcome such a proposal. Unlike Easter Monday, May Day, and Spring Bank Holidays, all which falls on a Monday; St. Georges Day, like New Years Day, would fall on any day of the week. I can imagine employers being up in arms over this. Rue the day when St. George selects a Tuesday or a Thursday to mark his commemoration. Imagine the large number of employees who would phone in sick on the Monday or Friday respectively. I recall once the huge commotion in our national newspapers the week following January 1st a few years ago, when the holiday fell on a Thursday. According to the Press, the nation's economy had taken a nosedive when the Friday was taken off in addition to the holiday, and did not pick up again until the doors of the workplace opened on Monday, January 5th. Although according to one poll, 83% of the English population is in favour of making our national day a Bank Holiday, I can't see this going down well in the business world.

But even if St George became a national holiday, it would have nothing in comparison to the highly festive days celebrated with carnivals and a party atmosphere found in other countries, especially in Asian and tropical regions. Could it be that our conservative self reserve, the stiff upper lip, and our stoicism, along with a large dollop of pessimism, be connected with our lousy, unpredictable climate? After all, a chilly wind accompanied by driving rain is pretty well normal for August, when the kids take their Summer leave from school. Then to add to this, living on an island, cut off from mainland Europe by a minimum twenty miles of sea, does give us a false sense of an ideal society over the centuries at least, along with the delusion of being chosen by God, and his divine approval to go out to sea and conquer the world for him.

Oh, the irony of it all! We have St. George as the patron saint of England, yet this guy, whether historic of mythical, wasn't even an Englishman, but imported from either Georgia east of the Black Sea, Cappadocia in Turkey, or from Libya. Other things we so consider traditionally English includes tea, imported from India. Then the most English of all takeaways, fish & chips, being a convenience meal originating from a group of Jewish refugees, and the traditional pub or tavern was also common throughout the ancient Roman Empire, so according to a recent BBC programme. Little wonder that the English have really, little of their own to celebrate, and maybe can't be bothered to make any commemoration at all.

But come the World Cup football tournament, or any other national or international event, whether sporting, or pageantry, then many St. George Crosses begins to appear across the land - upon bedroom windows, gardens, tied to the aerial of cars, clothing, and even tattooed permanently on the (usually male) body. Yet it was only recently that I have learnt that the red cross of the English flag is depicted from the Roman Catholic crucifix. If there was a time that I wished I had a much keener interest in history at school, I might have learnt about such an elaborate story brought back to England by the Crusaders during the eleventh or twelfth Century. Something about the legend of a brave warrior who bartered with the local pagan population to slay a dragon living in a nearby cave, who had received a young maiden as a sacrificial offering, in exchange for a mass conversion of the people to Catholicism. When the local population agreed to the conversion, George took his crucifix with him, along with his sword, and successfully slew the beast. Afterwards the people were baptised into their new faith.

A very charming story which does not seem to have any historical verification, but I guess it was a good one to enforce the morale of the Crusaders themselves, as well as boosting the credentials of the Catholic faith to the general population of Europe and Britain. However, as one who believe that most, if not all legends, have a kernel of truth embedded within, it is likely that such a character named George did exist, in much the same way as Bishop Nicholas of Myra, a historical figure, known for his generosity and goodness towards the poor, giving rise to the eternal festive character of Santa Clause riding high upon a sleigh flown by airborne reindeer. So in truth, this fellow named George might have been a valiant soldier who had performed an outstanding act of war, or rescued a maiden in distress in similar ways that a fireman would rescue someone from a burning building. He might have even slain a more realistic beast such as a lion. Unfortunately, a lion is far less romantic or mystical than a dragon. But whatever the historical character might have been, he is portrayed as strong, courageous, and brave. And these are the triple virtue every Englishman wants to see in himself, as well as by others.

And maybe that's it. If I was to see myself as strong, brave and courageous, then why the need to trust in God? I would have everything I'll need, not just to survive, but also to prosper, and in a way to be my own saviour. Could this be the underlying factor which has built self confidence in lieu of faith in God? The snag with this philosophy is that it can be very difficult to hold up in the real world. Anger, fear and anxiety are the three harmful emotions which not only are so detrimental to the soul but also to physical health as well. I am aware that most men can keep their emotions under check in public, at least to a certain limit. But I am convinced that keeping emotions bottled up under a stiff upper lip, then be told to man up when things go wrong, is not the solution. Instead, Peter instructed all believers to "cast all your burdens upon him (Jesus, the resurrected Lord) for he cares for you" (1 Peter 5:7).

Strong, Bravery, and Courage, three virtues that are good qualities in a person's character. But if centred on self, as was the case of George and all his followers, than they could be a blockage to having faith in God, instead creating self-confidence and pride, along with a self-set standard no one can honestly keep. When failure comes, the one who thought he had these characteristics may arrive at the point in believing he is weak, cowardly, and timid, resulting in developing a low self-esteem that can last a whole lifetime, even leading to severe depression, and eventually, the possibility of suicide.

King David of Israel was very strong, very brave and very courageous. Whenever there was a threat from a strong enemy, particularly from the Philistines, he led his forces into battle, and always won, bringing victory to Israel. But he did not depend on his own strength to win these victories. Instead, he wholly trusted in God. One of the best examples of this dependency is found in 2 Samuel 7:18-29, where David prays to the Lord after God had delivered a set of promises through Nathan. Another is Psalm 40, where is faith in God is fully testified. David was filled with the Holy Spirit, who came into him at the moment he was anointed with oil by the prophet Samuel (1 Samuel 16:13). Throughout the rest of his life, David allowed the Holy Spirit of God to produce the fruits, including courage and bravery.

But while great men such as King David depended fully on God and has gotten his strength by trusting in him, that is not the case with the natural man, who has only himself to depend on, and is the basis of pride and self-exaltation if success comes his way. This happens individually, as a group or company, and as a nation. While in the past, the English might have had something to be proud of, and to boast about, mainly over imperial success and victory in warfare. Nowadays, there is little to be proud over, and the shameful defeat and humiliation of the England squad in the last World Cup tournament, for example, caused the nation to mourn silently while remaining stoic among other nations.

There is only one alternative, and that is to believe in your heart that Jesus Christ died, was buried, and on the third day rose from the dead, proving to the world that he is the Christ and Lord. By believing, you allow the Cross of Christ to slay the self-controlled Old Man, to give birth to the New Man, born of God with new desires to love and serve God and other people, and to love the brethren, that is, fellow believers. It was Jesus who has shown us how easy it is to be filled with the Holy Spirit of God. Just ask, and his Father in heaven will gladly give (Luke 11:13.) If you believe in your heart enough to ask God to fill you with his Holy Spirit, then he will send him, no strings attached. And that promise is from none other than Jesus Christ himself.

There is a test set out by John the apostle to prove whether you are truly born of God, and is this: Do you love the brethren, your fellow believers in Jesus? If you do, then you are a true believer (1 John 4:7-8.) God's love in us does not allow room for pride, haughtiness, conceit, snobbery, or the feeling of ethnic or racial superiority, neither does it seek for heroism. Instead, it seeks for the interest of the affairs of others.

Without the need to slay any dragons.

Relief at Last?

Today as I sauntered through the shopping precinct and the malls in Reading, a large town some eleven miles from my home town of Bracknell, and reached by a short train ride, I could not help the feeling of casual sense of relaxation and the feeling of ease among the shoppers as they sauntered by. It was a beautiful sunny day, with the temperature soaring to a pleasant 22 degrees Celsius, on Summer Solstice, the longest day of the year. Oh well, as I sat on a public bench and mused: Christmas will soon be here.  

 

The relaxed atmosphere tells me a lot. First of all, sunshine weather does lift the spirits, minimises personal stress, and makes the whole world looking cheerful. But there was another aspect to this air of tranquil. As I write this, so I read, England are out of the World Cup tournament in Brazil. This was due to losing two opening matches, the first suffering a defeat from Italy, the second lost to Uruguay. Then for England to have held on to any hopes of going through to the knockout stages, Italy must score at least two goals against Costa Rica. But instead, Italy lost to this tiny segment of Central America by one goal to nil. As the complicated mathematical probabilities show, England are out of the tournament.

 

So the Media keeps telling us. So as I went to do the weekly grocery shop at the local supermarket, I actually watched a member of staff take down all the English St. George flags and bunting which were, before that evening, displayed everywhere in and out of the store. Homes in my neighbourhood also took down their flags, and the environment began to look as normal as any other time of the year.

 

Well almost. As I exited Bracknell station, the first thing I saw was a taxi at the front of the rank, still displaying two English flags. And across the street from my home, one house still has its large St. George hanging from the front bedroom window, and just two or three blocks away, another home is fully garnished with white and red flags and garden bunting. Despite what the Media says, backed by a public apology from the team broadcast on the BBC, as these fans see it, England is still, officially, in the tournament, a matter I agree with. The enduring presence of flags and bunting testifying to their ardent patriotism and devotion to the fact that England is not yet out of the contest until the moment the team boards the 'plane for the flight back to the UK.

So their hopes lingers on, regardless on what the Media tell us. Even with the 0.01% chance that England could still get through purely by a fluke, they believe miracles can and do happen. They have that longing for history to repeat itself maybe just once more in their lives, when those of my generation recall the mass hysteria nearly half a century previously, when the London street was so tightly packed with a million happy fans cheering the open-top double-deck bus, that Alf Ramsey's team were literally confined to a very slow crawl as the bus made its way to Mansion House. The feeling of sheer exuberance, the ecstasy shown by the vast crowd was something forever imprinted in the memory of our nation, and so brought up over and over again every four years when the World Cup football tournament kicks off once again.

 

Over the past 48 years since that great day, hopes builds on a four-year cycle, and each time this same enthusiasm crashes to the ground, particularly when England makes it into the knockout rounds, but usually does not get past the quarter finals. Monday morning comes round and it's back to the workplace, whether its in the office or at the roadworks, the drudgery goes on, the last of the hangover peters out as their consolation drinks in the pubs and bars fades with the lost contest into history. There is always the next time, perhaps. 

 

But as I sat on the public bench in Reading, I was aware that this time things were different. Sure enough, I could spot a downcast face here and there, but as for the general mood, I could not help feel a sense of relief in the air, helped a lot by the fine weather. At last, there is no more of this nail-biting tension whenever England plays in a knockout match. Relieved from this ninety minute agonising moments when a last minute equaliser scored in injury time condemning both teams to a thirty minutes of extra play, if not end in a penalty shootout, or after nearly two hours of near silence due to a goal-less draw. I felt so much relief from being delivered from the sheer frustration that the lack of goals could be so consistant with the game. Give me rugby anytime. The final score of say, 25 to 5 points would make a lot more exciting event to watch. But as I sat down on that bench and watched so many families saunter by, most with reasonably behaved children, with a few other toddlers screaming to get their own way, I was wondering why so many were ready to follow with devotion eleven men kicking a football, but the great God in Heaven was virtually unknown to them.

It was only a few days earlier, when speaking to one of my customers, that the reality of the spiritual state of many hit home. This wife and mother of three was aware of my wife's infirmity, and showing interest on how we were coping, her look of surprise when I explained our trust in God to sustain us, was something of a revelation. She was a typical Miss Average Brit whose working husband is a keen England supporter, supplying his twin son's bedclothes, as well as bedroom wallpaper, decorated with the England three lions and images of black and white footballs respectively.

What I am trying to say is: the vast majority of people in Britain do not seem to know God or his salvation. But not only in Britain, but all over the world, and particularly in the Far East where at certain days of the year, vast crowds gather to celebrate their Hindu or Buddha's holy days. Over here, it is the rare case, when the home team brings an international trophy back into the UK, that gathers the huge crowds, all enthusiastic in giving glory and honour to their sporting heroes.

I sat on that bench, and wondered just how believing that Jesus is the Son of God who was risen from the dead could so easily change a person's eternal destiny. As I watched mothers pushing their baby's pram or chair, I could see how the parent wants the very best for their offspring, and dad ensuring that the family is well provided for. Although the majority were white, representatives of all races sauntered past the bench I was sitting on. I was asking myself, why isn't the truth of the Gospel getting through to them? What is the eternal destiny of the newborn asleep in the pram? And what if one was born in a Hindu, Islamic or Buddhist country? As I visualise the newborn, crying to inflate his or her lungs so soon after being born, does it seem like a luck of the draw that this baby's parents happen to be Hindu? Even in one of the streets I work at, I watched a daughter born in a Muslim family, and grow up to learn about the works of Mohammad. In turn, one of our church elders is a devout Christian, who himself had married a believer, and their two sons are growing up under Christian instruction and guidance, just as the elder himself and his two brothers also grew up in a Christian household.

What is it that keeps many from believing the simple truth of Christ Resurrected? As I look around, I sigh, wishing that everyone came to the knowledge of the truth. I imagine vast, vast crowds gathering together to celebrate the victory Jesus Christ has won for us, defeating the forces which had enslaved the human heart since the dawn of history. Sure, I have been to Christian festivals such as Spring Harvest and Stoneleigh, where a crowd can fill a large top, but this would be minuscule compared to the crowds that would have filled the streets of London as the England team holds aloft the World Cup trophy, as it happened in 1966.

Sure enough, there was a large crowd who greeted Jesus during his triumphant entry into Jerusalem. They cried out, Hosanna to the Son of David! - as a result of witnessing his miracle of raising Lazarus physically from the dead. They had not only cheered him, but threw palm leaves on the road in front of his donkey. But all this was little more than hero-worship, very much like England received in 1966. But the sheer fickleness of the heart is exposed by the attitude of the very same crowd, this time crying out for him to be crucified. Perhaps not that different from the binned flags and bunting found across the country after this year's early defeat.

How I long in my heart to see many more people believing in Jesus and being saved. How I would like to see an enormous crowd thundering their praise to God as a result of spiritual regeneration rather than hero-worship. Wouldn't it be wonderful so see the result of mass regeneration - members of the Police force needed to find alternative work, the doing away with train tickets and the need for ticket inspectors and barriers, the closing down of law and civil courts, prisoners set free. I know, this seems cloud-cuckoo land in this present age, but the Bible promises a future age when all of these dreams will be realised, together with the elimination of all sin, illness, negative emotions, anger and frustration, boredom and finally death. And this fantastically beautiful world will not be confined to Disney or Grimm's fairy tales. Instead this new age will become a reality, and furthermore, a free invitation to enter God's kingdom is available to all who would receive it.

Maybe if Jesus was the national and international icon rather than England football team, who knows what day-o-day life would be like?

I'm Coming Home.

Remembrance Sunday has come round again. Across the nation the BBC will broadcast the ceremony of our Queen laying a wreath of poppies at the Cenotaph at Whitehall, along with the rest of the Royals, Government ministers, war veterans and other noted personnel, together with the marching sound of the military band. The time will be 11.00 am, the exact time Armistice was signed, ending the Great War on the 11th November, 1918. Also at our church, at 11.00 am, I will be standing in silence with the rest of the congregation, showing my respect and thanking those who gave their lives for our freedom during those two world wars.

 

 

 

What would go through my mind? Possibly the mass deaths at sea, such as on board the ship HM Lancastria, when one afternoon on June 17th 1940, she was bombed three times by a German warplane, and sank with approximately 2,800 men on board who lost their lives. It was said that while the men stood on deck, they sang two songs while the ship went down: There'll Always Be An England, and Roll Out Red Barrel  - about the very English brew; Watneys Ale in its trademark barrel, most popular at the time in all British pubs and bars. Then there was the tragedy of the submarine HMS Thetis which went down during trials in the Irish Sea a year earlier in 1939, with 99 hands who died of asphyxiation. Not to mention many, many more deaths on the battlefield and among prisoners of war.

I think of how each mother must have felt when news came in of her son's death at war. Was she proud that her son died a war hero? Or did she break down in tears at his demise, remembering the day she gave birth and suckled him on her breasts, then watched him grow through all the stages of boyhood and adolescence? Then the men who went off to war. How did they really feel? Despite all this English bulldog bravado and stoicism, I heard through TV interviews with veterans that many had a longing to be at home under the loving care of their mothers. There were some who had only just married, and were called to war soon after their marriage was consummated. As they marched off, did they have the vivid image of their bride looking sadly into their eyes, as if pleading not to leave? I wonder how many cheeks were wet with tears as they marched on stoically? Never mind that the British constitution claimed to be Bible based, with the Law of Moses declaring that no groom should go to war for a year after their wedding, this was not considered by the British military. Grooms must have departed with broken hearts, realising the possibility of never to see their brides ever again.

And so it happens. Imagine, for example, being trapped inside a sinking submarine. The power shuts down, all the lights go out, and you are in this thick impenetrable darkness. You grope for the door locking wheel and unable to locate it, the icy sea water rises to your neck, you tread the water to keep your head above the surface, only to hit the solid metal ceiling. As the water covers your face, once again you are seeing yourself vividly comforted by Mum, running around in the garden, or you feel the kiss of your beautiful bride on your lips before passing away forever.

All for the freedom of England and the continuation of the British culture you gave your life for. You were a hero. So as I think about as I stand in silence for those two mere short minutes. For the continuance of British culture - a pecking order we call the class system, in which this week I felt myself once again at the sharp end during my normal window cleaning rounds.

Why such a hostile look from one daughter of a client whose windows I cleaned on a routine schedule? Or the curt answer from her sister, after knocking on the door, as she keeps her mouth as if glued to her mobile phone, while her parents were out? Why am I such a pariah to them? All I was doing was earning my own living in a honest manner. Then at another house in the same street the girlfriend of one of the residents recently moved in. Before then, I served a brother-and-sister residence owned by their father, whom I got to know reasonably well. For the past year or so, I got on well with the two offspring, even served with a cup of tea by the sister. When the brother's girlfriend moved in, it was she who terminated the agreement, therefore losing a customer, vital for the business.

Her rather bureaucratic explanation for the loss was because her landlord no longer wish to pay the fee, despite recalling his daughter digging into her own purse. Then again, I was wondering, could it be that difficult for three professional pen-pushers to pay a single-figure monthly fee? I have customers who willingly pay more than double that amount, and are grateful for my regularity in calling. It is also interesting to note that some of the most generous and kindhearted clientele have non-British origins. But with this house, it was not the money, nor the lack of it. Rather, the loss of it was due to social status - as if in this land of homeowners, there is something distinctively shameful about being tenants. I, for one, have been a tenant to the borough council since 1976, the year I flew the nest. I'm very happy to hold this status. Did you know that if the roof begins to leak, it would not be my responsibility to pay for a private contractor to repair it? It would be the responsibility of the landlord, the borough council, to fund the repairs, as long as I don't let the rent go into arrears, something which had never occurred in the past 37 years of tenancy. Furthermore, I have no shame whatsoever in being a tenant and bypass the many headaches involved in ownership, when in reality, the real ownership would be in the hands of the creditor whose mortgage I'll be paying.

What is it about the obsession with home ownership, the sense of low status as a tenant, the adoration of the celebrity, the respect due to the well-educated professional, and the contempt towards those with humble occupations? Not long ago, while I was sitting in the sauna, I heard a story of a female office worker say with a degree of contempt to a colleague; Oh, he's just a cleaner. This attitude has brought cleaners like myself to the brink of tears. Is this the Britain those men of war had sacrificed their lives for?

Much to my surprise, a pattern here is beginning to emerge. Going by experience, it looks to me that young women seem to be far less fair than men of approximately the same age. Over the years as a window cleaner, many a son was more amenable, even making an effort to pay me at his parent's absence. This had been quite a revelation to me! Then again, I grew up believing that the female is more emotional than the male, more compassionate, more sympathetic, more soothing to the hurt than the man, who would more likely say in effect to get a grip on yourself, and man up! Even religion backs this; for many centuries Roman Catholics worshipped and adored the Virgin Mary, asking her to be the motherly mediator between the worshipper and a rather distant, emotionless and disciplinarian male God. Far more shrines of Mary than those of Jesus are to be found in Catholic countries. Even in ancient Ephesius, there was the temple dedicated to Diana, whose threat to her deity by the apostle Paul led to a city riot.

All these things has made me ask what is really going on in the modern office, what kind of a culture is to be found therein. Are women office workers really feeling their self esteem to be under some kind of threat? Is there a gender contest of some kind in the office? Could there be some truth to an idea I had, that God calls Christians to work in the office environment mainly for their presence to keep evil in check? A bit like salt of the earth, perhaps. Having never seen the inside of an office, I realise that these are only speculations, but those based on what I have seen and heard.

To add to such humiliation I felt at work, this has been a dismal week. We had rain, which does not do the business any good, and I have returned home cold and drenched to the skin. Then having changed clothing, I head off to the station to catch a train to Reading, where my wife lies ill in hospital. Within 48 hours there were two signal failures on our line, resulting in delayed and cancelled trains, and frustrated waiting on cold, wind-blown platforms. As a result, much of the week was spoiled by disrupted journeys. It was when I was feeling so low that a thought touched my mind, causing me to look up. I am alive. Let's thank God for the breath of life!

This, for me, is a vital reality. We live in a country where education is king. I have one graduate friend in our church who goes to Africa two to three times a year, and one of our elders, also a graduate of course, had today flown out to India for ten days to help out setting up an Indian Bible festival, similar to Spring Harvest or Newday festivals we have here. Then there is a third member in our church who wishes to be a missionary in Turkey. So he is studying for a degree as a mature student in order to fulfill the post. It looks to me that holding a degree is the door to opportunities abroad. In turn, in the 1990s I once volunteered to teach a class on the Second Coming of Christ, and eschatology in general, after suggestions from others in the congregation. The elder at the time flatly refused to let me give a talk at least. As he said, let a better educated person teach. Since then, this particular elder was defrocked by the rest of the congregation for supporting an adulterer and concealing his sin, and has now moved across the Atlantic to Florida.

There were times in the past that living in snooty, class-ridden England had tempted me to suicide. But God, in his mercy, had shown me that England is not my real home. My real home is in Heaven, where Christ is seated on the throne, and one day I shall be like him, for I shall see him as he is. This is the glory to look forward to, and such a destiny is available to all who believes in his heart that Jesus is Lord and God has raised him from the dead.

This is the real secret and power behind why I don't mind spending the rest of my life as a tenant in a rented property. There is a rent-free, mortgage-free property awaiting me in Heaven. That makes life worth living for.

 

Climbing to the Top...

Imagine a pub or bar scenario. Two groups of football supporters sitting side by side. One group support Rovers, and their motif is a striped blue and white scarf. The other are United fans, distinguished by their solid red scarf  - as here in the UK, football, officially known as Association Football, or Soccer for short, is played during the cold Winter months. This particular afternoon, United thrashed Rovers by four goals to one. So a member of the Rovers supporters approach one of the United fans and shaking his hand, congratulates him for being the better team. In turn the winning supporter buys him a drink.

 

Yea, if only.

Rather, opposing soccer fans has been a cause of fierce rivalry over the decades, with a strong Police presence keeping rival fans apart and making sure no violence erupts. Furthermore, at an average football stadium, fans of one team sit on one side of the pitch, the opponents on the other.

 

This is the time within the four-year interval that specific nations of the world are playing qualifying matches for entry into next year's World Cup tournament to be held in Brazil. Earlier in the week, England managed to beat Montenegro in the first of the two playoffs. At this point of writing, they will still have to defeat Poland before a guaranteed entry.

 

England has this habit of defeating rival internationals to qualify, but later, well into the tournament, England gets eliminated during the knockout stages in the selection for the cup final. And that is when I breathe a long sigh of relief!

 

Of course, 1966 will always be a year to remember in English football. This was the year when England defeated Germany at the World Cup final played at Wembley, and the whole nation roared with delight as the golden cup was lifted by the team captain. Afterwards, the open top double-deck bus hardly moved along the streets of London as the road was literally blocked with thousands of cheering supporters. A year later in 1967, the team manager Alf Ramsey, was knighted by the Queen.

Then again, back in 1966, when I was a thirteen year old schoolboy, our national culture was different. Despite being at the peak of the hippie age, men were still men and women were grateful! For example, women back then saw nothing amiss about staying at home as a housewife while the husband went off to work, no matter what occupation he was in, to fulfil his role as breadwinner. I recall, during the school holidays, watching Bill and Ben the Flowerpot Men, as the BBC back then broadcast the daily fifteen minute Watch with Mother programmes. The very nature of these shows reflected the housewife and mother staying at home to look after their young children while Dad was at work. I guess the way our brains are wired up, along with genetic makeup, we men are simply not happy unless we are productive in one way or another. I also guess that it had all started when God commissioned Adam to maintain the Garden of Eden and to look after it, giving him his wife Eve to be a help meet for him.

 

It has been said that productivity was the result of the Fall, but the Bible does not indicate this. Instead, God told Adam to take care of the Garden and to keep it, before the Fall. It was only after sin had entered the world that our livelihoods depended on our productivity. Yet, for thousands of years which followed, until relatively recently, productivity had always been a male domain.

 

I recall the moment I made a mention in referral to this while I was a volunteer in Israel, back in 1994. Immediately I was taken the wrong way by a couple of feminist-minded women in the Christian Conference Centre where I lived and worked. It was this that led to my final dismissal by the centre director. They thought I was saying that women were "inferior" to men. I told them straight that I was not implying this. What I said was that men and women have different roles to function and both were equally important. After all, does it look natural for a woman to be lying flat on the floor of a mine tunnel, drilling into the coal face, covered in black soot? Or getting equally dirty sweeping chimneys? These occupations seems okay for men, but for women? Then again, pardon my perception, but does it look really natural for a female to drive heavy articulated trucks with their massive steering wheels? Or even buses? For that matter, bricklaying at a building site? Is there something attractive about a female bodybuilder with rippling muscles and bulging biceps and thighs as hard as tree trunks?

 

Maybe I'm old fashioned and a male chauvinist, but I would never allow my wife near a coal mine, although bricklaying has always been something she would have liked to aspire to. Then again, stacking shelves in a shop or supermarket, or even at a factory production line, I might have given my grudging consent, if our household budget was dangling precariously over the cliff. But working in an office? To tell the truth, in such a case my self esteem might have come under threat, although not ever had this experience, I can only speculate.

 

Yet in domestic window cleaning, I came across situations which opened my eyes to what really goes on behind closed doors. I know of five cases where the husband walked out from his wife and family, three of these the wives were dedicated career women, the other two had found new female companions in the office. Furthermore, I knew of three cases where the wife walked out of her husband and in one case, her two small sons as well, to pursue a career. I had men weep with grief on my shoulders. Sometimes I feel that my occupation involves more than mere cleaning windows. To add to this, I recall a TV documentary in the 1980s on why the UK divorce rate was rising rapidly. This programme involved interviews with one middle aged couple, whose grown-up children had flown the nest. After more than twenty years of marriage, they were separating. The reason for this did not become apparent until near the end of the show, when it was revealed that after their youngest offspring had left home to start a new life, the wife and mother had engaged in night school, and managed to gain some qualifications, maybe even a degree, and she wanted independence from her husband's bread winning role. He was devastated, and they both felt their love for each other dry up. Of all TV programmes, this one is as sharp in my memory as if broadcast only yesterday.

 

Only last week, I was sitting in the sauna with two other mates, one of then a commercial window cleaner at another town. He recalls a conversation among fellow cleaners in an office, where one of them overheard a female say to her colleague:

Ugh! He's just a cleaner!

I was told that several male cleaners were brought to the brink of tears by such attitude they come across frequently. Talking of British class divide, I can fully identify with these guys as I have encountered hostility, mainly from school or college-age daughters of customers who themselves are decent people to work for. From these experiences, to others as well as myself, I tend to believe that there is something intrinsically evil about someone, both male and female, pursuing further education and a career for the sole purpose of climbing to the top. Furthermore, I have read the result of a national survey, that employees of both genders prefer male leaders than female. Photos of a model posing as a female boss bullying a male office worker had also appeared in newspaper articles, enforcing my suspicion.

 

But am I being a male chauvinist? Not really. The Bible gives some examples of the lives of godly women, four comes into mind straight away. They were Rahab, Ruth, Hannah and Elizabeth. Reading the lives of these four, all were submissive to their husbands, with even Sarah, who ordered her husband Abraham to rid the house of Hagar and her son Ishmael, submitting to him, referring to him as a lord (1 Peter 3:6).

 

One of the loveliest praises offered to God were from two women, whose praise were very similar to each other - Hannah mother of Samuel, and Mary mother of Jesus. I quote here the praise offered by Mary in Elizabeth's presence, as quoted by Luke 1:46-55:

 

My soul glorifies the Lord and my spirit rejoice in God my Saviour, for he has been mindful of the humble state of his servant.

From now on, all generations shall call me blessed, for the Mighty One has done great things for me - holy is his name.

His mercy extends to those who fear him, from generation to generation.

He has performed mighty deeds with his arm; he has scattered those who are proud in their inward thoughts.

He has brought rulers from their thrones but lifted up the humble.

He has filled the hungry with good things but he has sent the rich away empty.

He has helped his servant Israel, remembering to be merciful to Abraham and to his descendants forever, even as he said to our fathers.

 

If you read 1 Samuel 2:1-11, here Hannah goes into greater detail in her praise to God, but essentially her prayer was the same as Mary's. These women show the virtue in having faith in God and to lead holy lives.

Men and women have different roles, but neither one is greater than the other. But pressing for supremacy, I think, is evil. That is the reason why I feel relief whenever England is eliminated during the knockout stage of a tournament, or any competition. If England wins the cup in Brazil next year, the national and imperial atmosphere of pride across the nation will be almost unbearable. Oh, for the nation to collectively humble itself before God in contrition, and to put its faith in Jesus Christ as Saviour. Not only would there be a dramatic change in culture, but this alone would make our nation really great.

England Goodbye...

This blog I decided to write after numerous patriotic symbols of England were posted on Facebook, on the run-up to St Georges Day.
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Of my travel experiences, most but not all, were done solo, as that was the way I would have preferred to travel, as testified in previous blogs. But it can be exhilarating to share the experience with one other person. And really, this is as far as I would go - since we have committed ourselves to each other, while three or more would have been a crowd. Such was the time Gary (name changed) and I successfully completed the End-to-End cycling tour southbound from one end of mainland Great Britain to the other in 1990.

The traditional route would have been 874 miles long, but since we did not stick to the official route, but detoured at various places, especially looking for our hostels to spend each night, I would have not been too surprised if we covered closer to a thousand miles in less than two weeks. Each daily leg of the journey was different, and each unique in distance, terrain and weather conditions. In all, if we were to average out even just nine hundred miles over twelve days, this would have brought about 75 miles of cycling a day.



This did not come overnight. In preparation for that holiday, I completed a number of cycling "burn-ups" - fast rides done mostly early Sunday mornings averaging between 25 and thirty miles, along with cycling trips to the coast (up to sixty miles) and Triathlons (Swim, Cycle and Run within one race).

Farnham Triathlon, 1987

Many in my church were impressed with our coming endeavour (Gary attended another church elsewhere.) But teasing came in the form of "Downhill all the way" as we were about to cycle from John O'Groats on the northern tip of Scotland, to Lands End, on the western tip of Cornwall - in other words, the whole journey in the southerly direction. One guy, a devout Englishman who loved his suit and tie, got rather serious with this "Downhill all the way" that I got rather tired of hearing it. Even Gary was confused at one point and I recall, during a coffee stop at a cafe, explaining that the centre of gravity was at the Earth's core, not at the Equator or the South Pole - something I had already known from childhood. I guessed that the "Downhill all the way" idea was gotten after watching water being poured over a sphere, and running down the surface to the underside of the sphere and dripping off the South Pole area. With our planet "hanging upon nothing" in space, and its gravity at its core, little surprise that whenever the road headed skyward, we always found the pedalling a lot more difficult!

After spending the first few days cycling through Scotland, we arrived at the border with England. The A7 main road passed two signboards - one was the massive "Welcome to Scotland" sign, which towered well above our heads. The other, almost directly across the road, was a much smaller sign which simply read, "England" which was low enough to be at chest level.

The contrast between the two signs seemed to have reflected the level of pride between the two nations. Whenever Scotland celebrates its annual St Andrews Day, there is that festive buzz in the air, so I read. Last week we had our St Georges Day on April 23rd. Not only was it a working day, but was just as any other working day of the year. Not a bunting could be seen anywhere, people drove to their offices with glum faces as they always do. Traffic congestion build up then dissipates as more arrive at their destinations. Trains full of silent commuters, not a word spoken, far less a greeting. At the office, computer keyboards are at constant use, phones ring and trading gets underway. Just another day. But at least the city of Nottingham managed to put on a street show with plenty of flags and bunting. But then again, Nottingham is somewhere up north, where according to my experience, people up there talk to each other. Here in the South of England there is as much charisma as in a wet blanket.

Newspaper journalists love to boast of our stoicism, the stiff upper lip, our self control over our emotions which are all hallmarks of being English. According to them, to show emotion, or having a trembling lower lip, is a sign of weakness. One Daily Mail reporter even insist that true masculinity had dissipated since the death of Princess Diana in August 1997. We have, according to them, became a sentimental, mawkish, weepy society, especially when TV presenters or interviewees shed a tear on camera over a crisis or tragedy. I often wonder why the English have such an obsession with stoicism, but I came to the belief that it has all to do with our cool temperate climate.

 

A good example was last week. Much of the week was bathed in warm, pleasant sunshine with temperatures soaring to twenty degrees Celsius. Supermarkets reported a brisk trade in barbecue items in preparation for the weekend. Come Friday and a cold front from the north moved south towards the Continent. Behind it, we shivered under a cold blast from the Artic and yesterday I was caught out in a heavy hail shower. In such unpredictable weather and scuppered plans, I think stoicism is necessary for keeping sane. Indeed, there will always be an England, even with such rubbish climate!

England, O England! A country which places so much emphasis on social class, higher education, the professionals and the adoration of celebrities. It looks to me that having a university degree is the be all or end all, a must in achieving, or our lives are not worth living. If ever there was a country where personal worth is evaluated by occupation, level of education, wealth, property and mode of transport, then the English seem to have a distinct knack of assigning a slot in the social ladder. For example, as a cyclist (I don't own or drive a car) I need to be weary of the "career girl" the free-spirited professional high-flier driving a two-seater sports car, paying little regard to such a vulnerable cyclist whose presence had forced her to slow down and raise her ire. I don't want to sound sexist here, but I have often found career women in their late twenties and thirties to be more aggressive behind the wheel - maybe having less patience when a cyclist, who shouldn't be there, makes an appearance. Don't get me wrong, a lot of male drivers require a lot to be desired as well when it comes to highway manners. Maybe that is why these days I ride slower, on the excellent cycle path system we have in our area, but even with this, England does not hold a candle to Holland, which to my opinion, have the best cycleway system in the world.

When someone like me has travelled the world, particularly around the Mediterranean, I have found that it becomes easier to compare Englishness to cultures of other countries. For example, in Sicily I have found residents sitting outside their open front doors chatting away with their neighbours. Walk along a typical residential street and I would walk past lines of happy, chattering people and children playing.  Here in England, in the South (i.e. in the Home Counties bordering around London) there are quiet, almost deserted streets under this constant air of melancholy, which is tied in with the well-familiar saying, "Mustn't grumble" as if there was much to grumble about. Our lousy, unpredictable weather certainly doesn't help, making outdoor life a rare thing to be seen. While I was backpacking in Australia, it was not unusual to see public, coin-operated barbecue stoves permanently set up in city parks. Try finding these here. Such an outdoorsy sort of lifestyle would not be suitable in our climate and matching culture.

Yet England does have beautiful natural places which I'm sure, would, delight the eye of the beholder. One of my favourite areas is the Jurassic Coast Path, particularly from Swanage to Weymouth in Dorset. Here dynamic cliffs provide spectacular views of the coast including the famous Durdle Door rock formation.

Other beautiful places visited also included the Lake District National Park, in the northern county of Cumbria. Notoriously wet, taking in such scenery can be quite difficult, even in the Summer. But on one occasion in 1992, Gary and I were climbing Scaffel Pike, England's highest mountain which was shrouded in thick fog. As we carefully hiked the well-marked trail, we were nearing the summit when this fellow was moaning as he was coming back down.

"Several times I have climbed to the top and it was always shrouded in fog!" he declared as we passed him.

We pressed on until we arrived at the summit. Suddenly the fog began to lift, and as it did so, the whole of the panorama began to come into view. With steam rising in cloud columns, at first it looked a bit like a scene from Dante's inferno. Then the sun broke through to give us a magnificent view of the mountainous park, with Sty Head Tarn a couple of miles away as the crow flies.

No doubt, away from the sprawling suburbs, England does have its beauty, and as a believer in Jesus Christ, I have no problem in giving such credit to God's power in his handiwork. Yet also as a believer, our true home is in Heaven where there is not only a mansion being prepared for every believer, but even while we live here, we are already seated in Heaven, and Paul reminds us to set our minds on things above, where Christ is seated, rather than on things of the earth. Celebrating St Georges day is okay, but how much more are we to celebrate our redemption into God's Kingdom.

In Hebrews 11, there is a list of the Old Testament men of faith who has made it into this hall of fame. Within this list, the writer adds that if they wanted to, these guys could have returned to their homeland. Abraham was one good example. He was called out of Ur, in the region of Babylon, to live as a nomad in the desert land of the Canaanites, a people totally foreign to him. Some time ago, I read that in the ancient Babylonian culture, education was high on the list. Astrology along with mathematics were two of the most important subjects. Back there, children was taught the approximation of Pi, the square root, possibly the cubic root and all branches of geometry.

Shades of England.

But instead, Abraham and his fellowmen of faith looked forward to a city whose founder and builder is God himself. His longing for the promise was enough for him to leave behind his homeland and culture, and not knowing where he was going, allowed himself and his family to a nomadic lifestyle while remaining focused on God's promises.

Moses was another great example. With him, the writer of Hebrews emphasised that Moses preferred to suffer disgrace along with the people of God, that is, his fellow Hebrews, than to wallow in the Egyptian culture of the day. He too, was focused on the heavenly city God had promised, and he was willing to give up everything to be part of it. And it is interesting that ancient Egypt deified their monarch in much the same way as the English deify the Queen today. But as Moses and Abraham looked to better things God had promised, shouldn't we too?

 

Tut Tut, Naughty

Herodias was ambitious. She was fed up of her husband Philip's domineering attitude. Always had to be submissive to him as Tetrarch, or governor of Ituraea, a region north-east of Israel bordered on the west by the River Jordan, an area occupied by Syria today. To the west of the Jordan River was Galilee, which included the west coast of the Lake of Tiberias, governed by Philip's half brother, recently divorced Herod Antipas, and apparently childless. These two brothers were the sons of Herod the Great, who not only governed the whole of Israel and Judah, but he refurbished the Temple in Jerusalem, and also built a shrine enclosing the sealed entrance of the Cave of Machpelah close to the town of Hebron (see my blog The Stone Bible, 1st February, 2011) - before he died following the slaughter of the Innocents in 4BC.
Where her husband Philip was authoritative over his own household, Herod Antipas had a much more malleable character, a personality she can wind around her little finger. So after a massive bust up, she left her husband, and taking her beautiful daughter, settled into Herod's palace.
For some reason historians cannot seem to agree on, Philip could not gainsay his half brother. Instead he remained at his palace alone and defeated. Soon after, Herodias married Herod and began to rule over his house as well as over the region of Galilee.
Then John the Baptist called out to them as they passed by in their chariot, saying that it was unlawful to marry someone else wife while her husband was still alive.
Herodias was furious! How dare this itinerant preacher tell her what was right and what was wrong. She ordered Herod to arrest him and thrown into the palace prison, to await execution. At least Herodias succeeded in having John silenced, if not her conscience.
I suppose Herod would have wanted a super injunction if the law courts were able to hand it out in those days. Herod rather liked John, and was willing to have him talk in his presence. He certainly would not have wanted the general population outside muttering and tut-tutting over his misdeed. He felt guilty and exposed. But unfortunately, his conviction of wrongdoing failed to result in a conversion. Had it, Herod would have sent Herodias packing, and he himself making a journey to Jerusalem to sacrifice a sin offering at the Temple.
I guess this is the outcome of State religion, in force in Israel up to the Crucifixion. God through Moses had set up this State religion - with the Law, detailed instructions on how to live, along with animal sacrifices and a special set form of worship. These applied to every Israelite, regardless of whether the person wanted to love or honour God or not. It was a disastrous failure. God himself knew this from even before such a covenant was ratified. The Law and state religion does not save, rather, it condemns. It causes one to judge another, and to compare one person's character and actions with another, even if nobody is actually "white" (having a spotless character), if someone else is "black", then even if the one judging is "grey", in front of the "black" person, he'll appear as "white".
That was how State religion was lived out in at the time of Herod, John the Baptist, the Pharisees and soon after, Jesus Christ himself.
The Pharisees were so notorious in judging and finding fault in others that both John and Jesus denounced them for their hypocrisy.
Finding fault, judging and making comparisons gives the person doing these things a sense of superiority, or a sense of self righteousness, with a deceptive idea of reaching Heaven after death by self effort.
It was easy for Israel as a whole to exalt itself on a national level, this sense of moral and spiritual superiority. During the time of Christ, no Jewish person would enter a house of a non-Jew, or Gentile, no Gentile was to enter the Temple area of Jerusalem, and they were made to stay away from the Jewish home.
Even the Apostle Peter, leader of the early Church, had difficulty in direct communication with the Gentiles. With the case of the Roman Centurion Cornelious, Peter had to have a special vision from above before he was convinced that the Roman men who arrived were sent by God. And even at Cornelious' house, Peter said that it was an abomination for a Jew to enter a house of a non-Jew. Charming! Cornelious could have shown him the door.
Even some time later, while Peter was at last settling down to dine with Gentile Christians, he suddenly rose and left the room when news of Jewish believers from James were about to arrive. Paul had to rebuke him, and he did so in public too.
On the national level, England seemed to have taken over from Israel in morality and national superiority. No greater proof of this than William Blake's poem Jerusalem which asks whether the feet of Jesus Christ once trod this green and pleasant land. Despite that there is no historical truth that he ever set foot here, this did not stop the poem from being put to music in 1916 by Sir Hubert Parry to create a patriotic hymn sung as an alternative to the National Anthem.

William Blake

Jerusalem is still sung at sports venues, particularly at Rugby matches, at the Ladies Institute, and at the wedding service of Prince William and Catherine Middleton, in front of a worldwide audience of around two billion viewers. In Parliament there was a debate whether Jerusalem would become the official anthem for England, but nothing of this had so far been declared.
The statement, Our God is the God of England, I actually heard right here at Ascot Baptist Church during the early 1990s. I was the only one who disputed the statement. Most of the others in church at the time seemed to have accepted.
Jeremy Paxman backs this up in his book, The English - A Portrait of a People. In it, Paxman interviews performer George Formby, to which he replied that Englishness is very deep spirit of St. George. The idea of St George is to fight against evil. (P.81)
Paxman discusses how the English believed that they were a covenanted people of God which began to peak in the 18th Century, in very similar pattern to ancient Israel. Sir Edward Hine, for example, in 1879 delivered a lecture in Chelsea advocating the crackpot belief that Britain was Israel (literal bloodline) and America was the lost tribe of Manasseh, arriving into the British Isles centuries after the "Ten Lost Tribes" were led away to Assyria as told in the Old Testament.
The nation as a whole now rejects this idea, but still hold to its form. In my schooldays morning assembly always had a Christian element, and that's despite the rise in atheism, particularly among the boys. I have seen over the years the decline in the belief in God, let alone commitment, yet upholding its Christian roots and morals. Very much like ancient Israel.
One example I would like to quote here is the case of Donald McGill, (1875-1962) an artist who designed the saucy postcards sold at British seaside resorts. In 1953 he had his entire stock confiscated from a shop at Ryde, Isle of Wight, the result of churchy bureaucrats who wanted to keep control of public morality. In 1954 he appeared in Court and was fined £50, a lot of money in those days. He escaped prison by a narrow margin. But soon after, his saucy postcard business began to flourish across the nation. The public found those cards amusing, and refused to have their morals controlled. And the attempted ban did not result in any conversions to Jesus Christ as Saviour either.

Into more modern times, I can name three married celebrities who each betrayed their wives by sleeping with their mistresses. Each of the three attempted to hide their misdeeds by getting an injunction from the Law Courts. This means that they have their privacy protected from the Media. In other words, they can err without the public knowing anything about it.
These were public figures. One was the BBC correspondent Andrew Marr, who actually asked for his injunction to be lifted. In 2003, Andrew Marr traveled to the Galapagos Islands to advocate Charles Darwin for the BBC Greatest Briton of All Time competition, which by public voting, was won by Winston Churchill.
The second was Royal Bank of Scotland boss Fred Goodwin, who slept with a work colleague, and it is thought by many that this misdeed was connected to the banking crisis which brought along the credit crisis and eventual Recession in 2010.
But the most dramatic was the case of Manchester United footballer Ryan Giggs, who ordered an injunction after betraying his wife Stacey to sleep with Imogen Thomas. The injunction was a failure due to the many Twitter posts revealing the footballer's identity. When Liberal Democrat MP John Hemming revealed the footballer's identity to the House of Commons, Speaker John Bercow rebuked him, saying that Giggs' privacy should be respected.
But to me who don't follow football, where Ryan Giggs would have remained an relative unknown, except for those into football, now has become infamous across the nation. It was so unnecessary. For news of adultery among celebrities means little to us now. Giggs should have realised that the nation hardly tut tuts any more.

Andrew Marr, fan of Charles Darwin

Yet journalists such as the Daily Mail columnist Amanda Platell still advocates Britain as a cultural superior nation due to its Christian heritage, despite its departure from anything Biblical or spiritual. In this weekend's paper she criticized First Lady Michelle Obama who, with her President husband Barak, was visiting Britain, and was giving an emotional talk to some students at a London girls school about "Triumph over Adversity". Platell responded with these words:
Perhaps someone should have explained to the First Lady that this is Britain and we don't tend to go for all that schmaltzy, heart on the sleeve drivel.
Wow, I wonder how many people reading this turned to Jesus Christ for salvation?
Now let me get real here. There is only one message all Christians should deliver. That is to repent and believe in Jesus Christ and be saved from separation from God and eternity in Hell. There is no other way to Heaven other than trusting Christ and him crucified.
Enough of this idea that just because one is British or English and was baptised in a church as a baby, one can work his way to Heaven. And don't be deceived by the sight of coffins containing war casualties passing through Wootten Basset after their heroic deaths in Afghanistan. Unless they were converted to Jesus Christ while still alive, they would now be in Hell. War death does not save one's soul.
When in Athens, Paul looked at all the pagan altars surrounding him, most if not all had occult influence. But instead of lobbying the Government to have them demolished, as we would probably have done, he just heralded the Gospel of Christ. It was the same when the Apostle was at Ephesus. He did not talk against the Temple of Diana which dominated the city. He just preached the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ, and faith in him for salvation.
It is not the adulterous acts committed by celebrities that sends them to Hell, it's not trusting in the Saviour. Lobbying against an occult shop about to open in the High Stret will be of no benefit whatsoever. Rather, such actions would cause Christians to be seen as miserable fun-spoilers, and further alienate the unbeliever from the local church.
We as Christians now have only one message: Repent and be baptised in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ, and you shall receive remission of sins.
Who knows. If Herod Antipas heard such a message, he might have repented after all. Poor John. He told the governor that this act was wrong and he paid with his life.