Covid 19 - Atheists Vs. Christians.

Just this morning, I made sure that I shoved a facemask into my pocket before leaving the house to buy the morning newspaper at a local superstore. However, as I was concentrating on where I wanted to go, I totally forgot about the mask after entering the store to pick up the paper from the stall. Just then, whilst I was still at the newspaper stall, a pretty young female approached, dressed in staff uniform, and with an equally sweet tone of voice, asked me whether I would like to borrow a mask.

Borrow a mask? No way would I hand it back to her with germs, saliva droplets, and all other impurities caught in the fabric! Instead, I apologised and whipped out my own nappy and covered my face with it. And yes, this was a genuine incident of forgetfulness and not a deliberate evasion of responsibility - despite my rising resentment at what appears to be a permanent necessity.

And so, the newspaper I had just bought carries the front-page headline: SUMMER FREEDOM ON HOLD TILL JULY.*  Indeed, I was disappointed but not surprised. I saw this coming. And the feeling of unease persists, and from time to time, bouts of anger and frustration as the question circulates around my head: When news of this new variant became apparent, why on earth didn't our government immediately impose a shut-down of all airline routes to and from India?

Indeed, this looks to be a repeat of the mistake made more than a year earlier, when British skiers flew to Northern Italy when that particular region had a high infection rate. But at least, back then, they hardly knew any better. Now we do. News of a high death rate and a broken health service across the subcontinent kept flooding our TV screens. And these footages included ghastly images of bodies cremated in public car parks, as the death rate was terrifyingly high. Yet some faceless bureaucrat in the Civil Service had advised our Government to keep the airline route open - whilst our PM had to cancel his visit to India's Prime Minister, Shri Narendra Modi, originally to set up a post-Brexit trade deal with that country.

Life in India - Source of the Delta Covid virus.

Maybe, our PM's intention is to keep on good terms with our Commonwealth member. After all, if a post-Brexit deal is so desired by us, dare we fall into India's bad books? Then, be sure to keep the airline routes open. Never mind the virus. We are the winners! Britain was once regarded as God's Country and rightfully ruled the waves. Therefore we remain immune to any foreign variant. So we thought...

And so, a threat hangs over our holiday prospect like a heavy thundercloud. This 6-day break is what we now call a staycation - one of those newfangled words whose proper meaning is controversial. It could mean a holiday at home, without actually going anywhere. Or, as we interpret the word to mean staying at any destination within the UK as opposed to holidaying abroad. Whichever it may be, our destination this time will be at Llandudno in North Wales.

I recall, with a level of amusement, one churchgoer who would have insisted that we will be going abroad - since Wales is not England. Never mind about that. My main concern is that the English/Welsh border may close again if the rise in this viral infection results in another national lockdown.

But I also need to ask: Is this whole scenario purely the fault of our government and its civil servants? Or was it inevitable that this Indian variant of the virus - now renamed Delta - had already found its way into the UK some weeks earlier by hitching a lift from an unsuspecting carrier? But what had annoyed me was that once discovered, a four-day "grace period" was set by our ministers to allow for all returning from India to enter the UK without the need to quarantine. And so, they poured back into the UK - only God knows how many of them were asymptomatic carriers of this Delta virus as they passed through Heathrow Airport.

As I often remind others at our weekday morning Zoom prayer meetings, I give thanks to God for the magnificent national vaccine rollout achieved in such a short time. And talking of vaccines and lockdowns, one academic, Prof Philip Thomas of Bristol University, wrote an article for The Daily Mail Online. Titled: Why we CAN be free on June 21, he argued - by using mathematical formulae - that because of the high percentage of inoculations, the rise of the infection rate in the weeks to come, including the possibility of a third wave, should have little effect on the rise of hospital admissions or the death rate. This is due to the present observations that the sudden rise of infections is confined mainly among the unvaccinated, that is, among the younger people who tend to recover from the infection more rapidly either without the need or with the minimum of hospital admissions.

Further checking has shown that this article had been deleted entirely from the main newspaper website, but can still be found on Mail+ which is linked directly to my Facebook profile (at least at this moment.) To have deleted the article was a great pity. The long comment forum trailing Thomas' contribution contained mostly positive feedback, with the majority praising him for his mathematical expertise and common sense.

Therefore, according to Thomas' excellent article, anti-vaxxers can still fall prone to the disease. And that is a great shame. And I find this quite embarrassing to my Christian faith. There are atheists who, with a much higher level of education and common sense combined, can argue against the so-called "Christian stance" with remarkable ease. And these atheists don't hesitate either.

Freedom Day - Much longed for.

One comes to mind - YouTuber Scimandan, whose latest video supporting inoculations has collected more than 75,000 views in just four days after posting. He submits at least two arguments in his support for the vaccines. These two arguments are a direct rebuke for the opinions held by some churchgoers.

One argument he puts forward is a rebuke against the bizarre idea that the vaccine contains a nanometre-sized electronic device that is injected into the bloodstream and therefore, the recipient will forever be monitored by Central Intelligence. True enough, such nanometre computers do exist. But Scimandan refutes the idea that a jab guarantees that the device will be injected. This because each vial contains four doses, and it would be impossible to guarantee that each dose would contain a monitor in each. Besides, we are constantly monitored already. The device used for this is much, much bigger. He then showed us his smartphone.

The idea of a nanometre-sized device in the bloodstream is taken from the Book of Revelation, the last book in the Bible, chapter 13. Here, the writer sees a vision of the future Antichrist ordering that no one can buy or sell unless he has a mark implanted either on his forehead or on his right hand. Often known as "The Mark of the Beast" - churchgoers use this as a reason for not taking the vaccine - despite that it has no relation to the vaccine! No vaccine leaves a mark on his forehead or right hand. Furthermore, my PhD friend Andrew wrote that those who accept the Mark not only will know what they are doing, but they will go for the Mark with deliberate intention - that is to willingly rebel against God in fist-shaking defiance.

The other reason Scimandan gives on why churchgoers refuse the vaccine is to do with aborted fetuses. I know a Christian couple who refuse to take the vaccine because, according to them, it was made from aborted fetuses. That is untrue, according to the atheist. Rather, in the making of the vaccine, parts taken from the lines of fetuses aborted in the 1970s were used in the development of the vaccine, but not as an ingredient for the vaccine itself. And this was not the first time that I heard this. I have read it from sources elsewhere already.

When I rebuked the husband for his skewered stance, he unfriended me from Facebook and even blocked me, so I cannot contact him in any way. A very sad reaction, in my opinion. But if he was right in standing by his opinion, then lockdowns would remain perpetual, never-ending, as no one who is against abortions, along with all churchgoers, would accept the vaccine. Again, according to my PhD friend, if these churchgoers have their way, the pandemic will never be defeated.

These, I feel, are times of distress. I both watch on television and read in newspapers about the sudden and rather threatening rise of the Delta variant of Covid 19. If unchecked, this could lead to another national lockdown, a move which the likes of Prof Philip Thomas would deem unwise, as this is just kicking the tin can down the road. By autumn, according to the professor, the rate of infection will rise again to coincide with the winter flu season.

But there is hope - a hope which I perceive as a mercy from God - the rapid development of vaccines designed to inoculate against the virus. Some good news: According to one source, around 50% of all determined anti-vaxxers have changed their minds and went on to receive their jabs. If only the other half would follow suit.**

When I feel sad, depressed, fearful, worrisome, then I have learned by experience that three spiritual actions I can take which I have found to be helpful. One is reading the Bible. This I do every morning before getting up. Another is prayer. I can pray in the comfort of my own home, alone and in quietness. Also, my church in Ascot is holding weekday prayer meetings on Zoom for twenty minutes in the morning. I find these virtual meetings very encouraging and beneficial, especially if this is the only way to remain in contact with those I love in Christ.

The reading of the Bible takes three "ingredients" for full effectiveness. The first is reading (the action itself) the second is the intellect or knowledge gained, and thirdly, with faith. Some atheists read the Bible and gain much knowledge, but without faith, the unbelieving reader or student will only pick holes, scorn and laugh at the Scriptures in mockery - especially over the early chapters of Genesis - and then dismiss it all in the name of Science.

At present, I'm reading through the three major prophets - Isaiah, Jeremiah and Ezekiel. For those not familiar with the Bible, these are found in the Prophecy section of the Old Testament. However, for the beginner, it's good to read the New Testament, especially the Gospel of John. For Old Testament reading, Genesis is a good book to start with. Appropriately, Genesis is the first book of the entire Bible. But it should be read with faith. Thus, by reading the writings of these three prophets, I came to a quick realisation that God is sovereign and really, the virus is little to be afraid of. 

Professor Philip Thomas.

The third spiritual action may or may not follow the reading of the Bible. That is meditating. One can interpret that as being in deep thought, but I find that going out for a walk and talking to myself whilst out and about prove also to be beneficial. I understand that such walks may not be convenient if one has a busy work schedule. Nevertheless, as a retiree, I have found ways to solve various problems, especially from a Biblical perspective when I talk quietly to myself. Even when I was at work cleaning windows, there were times I was able to meditate. Through means of this, one morning of October 1992, I felt inspired to fly out to Israel to pray over the city of Jerusalem the following year.

And so, I shouldn't feel so threatened over the potential loss of our vacation due to the rise of the Delta infection rate. Getting to know God through the reading of the Scriptures puts everything in the right perspective. We may lose the holiday, but we won't be losing our lives, neither would we suffer any separation from our marriage. 

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*The Daily Mail Newspaper, Saturday, June 12th, 2021.

**Ibid. 

That Which Is Sorely Missed...

It was earlier this week when I, for the first time, boarded a train for the whole of this year. The last time I bought a ticket for use on the railways was early December of last year (2020) to make a journey to Camden Town in North London to buy Christmas presents for the family - only ending up not distributing them in person on Christmas morning due to the third national lockdown initiated by our Government just before Christmas, thus wrecking the plans made by families up and down the land. Furthermore, right now, which is six months later, a wrapped Christmas present lies unopened in our lounge. Meant for one of our nieces, indeed, Santa Clause either forgotten about it or he had to isolate himself after becoming infected with Covid.

Southwest Trains - the first ticket bought this year. 

June 21st, which is also the Summer Solstice, is meant to be Freedom Day, when restrictions will be lifted and the return to normality. But whether I will still be compelled to wear a mask when inside a public facility, or we all shall be free from those wretched face-nappies, I would have to wait and see. One thing I do know: From June 22nd onwards, the nights will be drawing in again on a long, slow slide back to the cold, winter days when once again it will be time to pull the Christmas tinsel out of the cupboard. 

And the population here in the UK is divided into two opposing opinions. According to a YouGov poll, more than 60% of the British population who participated thinks it's too early for restrictions to be lifted. Therefore, I pity those who were in the remaining 38% who were optimistic enough to take a family holiday to Portugal - only for that country to be taken off the Green List, to be downgraded to Amber, which now means that by next week, everyone returning home must quarantine for ten days, along with further tests.

With scores of tourists cutting their holidays short, so to beat the deadline on Tuesday, I can only recall one occasion when I had to cut my holiday short. That was in 1979 when I took a trip to Llandudno in North Wales for a few days. Unfortunately, I can't remember the exact reason for cutting it short. However, coming to think of it, it was most likely to do with my stay at the hotel. But with what is now referred to as a staycation, there were no hassles with flights, airport security, luggage holds, passports or boarding passes. Just the return train ticket to London Euston.

But, by thinking back, I have a clearer memory of the hotel I stayed in. It was a typical off-the-street approach to the reception desk after walking a short distance from the town's terminus station. I was offered a rather drab-looking single bedroom in the loft at this family-owned Bed & Breakfast hotel. That night, I became aware of the drip, drip, drip of what looks to be rainwater from the ceiling near the bed, just missing the foot end. The next morning, I filed a complaint.

The owner at reception apologised and explained that there is a roof leak over that room and it's awaiting repair, and he assigned me to another room, one which was far more comfortable and homely-looking. However, I felt very uneasy. If the proprietor had already known about the roof leak before assigning me that room, then why on earth did he? Ah! Perhaps it was because I presented myself wearing denim and casuals. Tut! Tut! I should have turned up in a business suit and tie!

At breakfast, I was treated with extra courtesy by a young waiter, who fussed over me as if to make sure that I was a prioritised customer. Perhaps he was already aware that I had an uncomfortable night, and he wanted to make sure that my stay in Llandudno would be as enjoyable as can be.

The Great Orme at Llandudno is a geological phenomenon that aroused my interest. Perhaps, a mountain of limestone in its own right, a cable car led to its 207-metre summit from near the pier, and on a clear day, I was able to see the Isle of Man, some 65 -70 miles, approx 110 km away from where I was standing, along with the higher peaks of the Lake District, some 70-80 miles, approx 122 km, north of the Great Orme. I suppose my message for any flat-earthers reading this blog is that neither the Isle of Man nor the peaks of the Lake District could be seen from sea level. At least, that is what I remember.

Even the resort itself boasts two beaches, one on each side of the peninsula which juts out into the Irish Sea. Geologically speaking, the fact that the Great Orme itself is the headland is remarkable. It was once an island, separated from the mainland before the sea washed in enough silt that was deposited from the mouth of the River Conwy over the years to eventually form the peninsula - on which the resort was built.

The Great Orme, taken 2018.

That evening, I returned to the hotel. I approached the bar for an evening drink, and there, in casual, off-duty clothing, sat the waiter who served me that morning. We started talking, and during our conversation, he expressed his wish to move out of the area and relocate to London. After a drink or two, he invited me to his room. Very unusual, I know, but in my naivety, I followed him in.

It was a nice and comfortable-looking room, but to me, the penny dropped. I made my excuse, left, and headed for my own room. 

This was not the first time this sort of thing occurred. It happened during the Greyhound Bus service stop on the route from Amarillo to Flagstaff, to visit the Grand Canyon in 1978, as well as in Israel in 1976. Oh well, the ins and outs of Travel. But I ponder on why these men think I'm attracted to them. I believe it might be my accent or the way I communicate, along with my friendliness. This gives a false impression that I'm sexually attracted to them when I'm actually not. They even have a name for this kind of person in their own vocabulary - a Pseudosexual. 

The next morning, I was served by the waiter like all other guests were served - with courtesy but nothing intimate. Rather, I sensed an air of contempt, and I wondered whether I should have been more complicit. It was also the day I made my way - quite a long walk - to the Little Orme, a headland at the other end of Llandudno Bay. True to its name, it was smaller in size and of a lower height, yet nevertheless, it still provided an excellent day out and a good hike.

The next morning the waiter wasn't on duty, and I assume that he's having a day off. As somebody else had taken his place, I felt that it was time for me to check out and board the train home - a day or even two days before my original schedule to return home. Yet I felt a sense of loss in doing so. Therefore, I can understand how these people must feel when making their choice to cut short their holidays in Portugal to avoid quarantining.

 

Another opportunity did arise for us to visit Llandudno, which was in 2018. This time, we spent a few days in Conwy, a short train ride from the resort's station. With Alex in a wheelchair, it was very difficult to attempt to reach the summit of the hill. And we didn't. Instead, we spent just a day there, including a swim in the sea and a walk along the esplanade and onto the pier which offered splendid views of both the Great and Little Ormes with the bay joining both. Although she had expressed her wish for her to return, we recall the last return journey. As the train flew through Rugby Station, the motion caused her back to flare up in pain, and there was little we could do until the train pulled into Euston, from where she was taken by taxi to a nearby hospital to receive an intravenous painkiller. 

But this time, we are better prepared. With a supply of Paracetamol, Co-Codamol, Ibuprofen, and in the worst case, Oramorph, we feel more confident with long train journeys. Maybe, once this Coronavirus pandemic subsides, we can plan to travel more regularly.

To cut one's holiday short because a greater restriction is suddenly imposed by the Government is one kettle of fish. But in the past year of lockdowns, there is one facet of life I truly miss - our weekly church attendance. True enough, I still remained stubbornly anti-church for the first year after my conversion to Christ towards the end of 1972. But when I joined St Jude's in Brixton in 1973 (which, by the way, I came across by accident) the idea of church attendance became ingrained in my life. After a year at St Jude's Anglican, I was recommended to try Bracknell Baptist Church, and I joined them in the Spring of 1975 and remained until 1989. This was followed by several months of no church at all until a friend recommended Ascot Baptist Church, which I joined in 1990 and remained to this day.

My love for the church is as much as I love to travel. Over the years, I have watched Ascot Baptist Church transform into Ascot Life Church, a name it has chosen for itself when we moved from our original building in North Ascot to the Paddock Restaurant at the main racecourse. This move was due to the growth in the size of the congregation until our original building became too small to accommodate our Sunday services.

Due to the rise in the pandemic, all physical meetings came to a halt during Spring 2020. After this, we started an online virtual service, where we all stayed at home to watch the computer screen. This form of communication had never held a candle to the real thing, but it was better than no communication at all. It's as if Providence had carefully waited until our technology was developed enough for such advanced communication to be available. Then came the pandemic. Had the virus spread just a few years earlier and a series of lockdowns stopped our meetings altogether, it would have been a lot worse, with all contact lost, save for an occasional phone call.

Zoom and virtual meetings had kept our spirits ongoing throughout the isolation. However, back in the summer of last year, during a pause in lockdowns, I managed to have a one-to-one talk with two of our Elders at Starbucks Coffee. With one of them, we met over coffee on quite a few occasions. Young enough to be my son, he recognised my wisdom gained by personal experience, hence I was able to offer him advice. His humbleness as a church elder has raised my admiration of him, hence making me feel fully at home at Ascot.

Ascot Life Church

Alex too is fortunate to have two ladies come to visit our home at regular but also at different times. Usually, I go out, and "leave the two ladies to chat at their heart's content" - without a man in their way. During the lockdown, all this was suspended, and only an occasional phone call had to suffice.

It's the kind of fellowship I miss badly. If our Government will be able to lift restrictions once and for all, and proper physical services can resume - without wearing masks! - then how wonderful that will be. Once again, I'll be part of a family - because that is what a church is all about - God's family.

It's a family I have missed so sorely throughout the months of lockdowns. But I hope it's the will of God for us all to meet again and it will be His pleasure for us to be together once again.

Both of Us in Need of a Miracle

Our present marriage relationship looks to be well admired by those around us, particular among other Christians. Over the past twelve months I was approached by two grooms for advice just prior to their nuptials. And I gave advice or guidance to one or two others since. I for one, would not hesitate to admit that the strength of our marriage comes from the grace of God. I have always been convinced that our time of meeting, our compatibility and even our age difference were not by chance nor by accident but by the foreknowledge and perfect plan of God.

Three daughters were born of our union. It was the firstborn who really changed my life. How much I loved and adored her! It wasn't long before she accompanied me wherever I went, that is of course, except to work. And during the morning small hours, whenever our child awoke and cried, it was always I who got out of bed to meet her needs, allowing my wife to sleep on uninterrupted. I became quite an expert in diaper change, bathing, and sometimes feeding as well. The latter more so whenever my firstborn accompanied me wherever I went, that is, except to work. The times I took her downtown, even on several train trips to Reading, and even on a day trip to London - just the two of us. How could I ever forget that afternoon when I took her to where I attended college on a weekly day-release some 36 years earlier, and watched her running freely in the gardens fronting the building located in East London, the same gardens I was familiar with as a student throughout the late sixties. These father/daughter outings came about mainly after our second daughter was born three years after our first. The general idea why I took my firstborn out was to give my wife some relief from raising both our daughters whilst I was at work. 

And there were times we went out all together as a family. Seaside day trips to Brighton were common, along with family trips to London and Reading. There was a time we took a catamaran for a week's camping holiday in Jersey, another time when we spent a week at a hotel in Penzance, yet another when we spent a week at a caravan at Par Sands, east from the Cornish town of St. Austell and also next to the magnificent shoreline of Polperro Heritage Coast. Another Cornish trip included the beautiful and rather quaint port of Mevagissey, on the Roseland Heritage Coast. And I just remembered a week at the Isle of Wight. Then not to forget our firstborn's first birthday when we spent the day at London Zoo. We have always believed that we did our best for our daughters, fed and clothed them well, took them to beautiful places, but most important of all, showered them with as much love and affection as we were able.

Mevagissey, Cornwall.

Indeed, as we love each other to this day, indeed, we still love our daughters to bits, as any parents in their right minds would regardless of circumstance.

However, it was later discovered that we both have mild autism, or Asperger's syndrome, a faulty wiring of our brains since gestation. But before then we were mystified on why the health visitor had concerns about the way we exhibited our character and parenting skills. In the course of time we found ourselves on the Child Protection Register for the duration of four months from November 2004 to February 2005, and looked upon as the worst time period in my entire life. I say these things now, after thirteen years, but not until after a decade later, because being on the CPR, I felt like a criminal. I was too embarrassed to share any of these things before 2014 or -15.

For convenience sake I'll refer to our social worker as Wendy. At first, I thought Wendy could be a help for us. We showed our hospitality by offering her refreshments such as tea or coffee. But she refused every offer. Whether this was her own choice or keeping with her job regulations, I couldn't tell. But it did not take long at all for her to reveal her true character, despite our first willingness to submit to her. For example, being on the CPR, Alex in particular was not allowed to be alone with our daughters whilst I was out at work, or out of the house in general. Wendy was quite strict on this, and can be prone to nastiness and impatience. What hurt me most of all was how Wendy treated Alex - like as if she was an imbecile - and together with her surprise that I happen to own a mobile phone, I found her to be insulting. To be truthful, I did leave Alex alone in the house with our daughters from time to time, knowing perfectly well that no harm will come to anyone. This was especially when I had to go out in the evening to meet some work responsibilities, for example, to collect window cleaning fees from customers who were out during the day - these fees when combined makes up our weekly income. It was when she discovered this "breach of the rules" that tensions between Wendy and myself grew to greater intensity.

Wendy, who back then was in her late twenties or early thirties, was a self-confessed atheist with a very short temper who looked down on us as social inferiors, probably gotten through her time at university, where she read on the works and research from well-known past psychiatrists and psychologists, some of them having had occult connections. A patriotic with a strong support for social class and Darwinism, she made sure that we knew of her superiority, even with her salary. A heated argument between Wendy and myself during February 2005 led to our two daughters taken from us when the Police and another social worker entered our home at three in the morning to take our daughters away for fostering. Leaving Alex screaming and prone to self-injury, our girls had never set foot in our house again. Neither was there any sympathy or compassion within Wendy's heart for us after our daughters were taken. Instead she spitted out hatred and anger. Not without reason. Her boss had given her several weeks notice to clear her desk.

This is one of life's great mysteries. How on Earth did someone such as Wendy land a job as a children's Social Worker? It was even admitted that her own office colleagues disliked her, just as our daughter's nursery school teachers disliked her as well. Her quick-tempered, impatient choleric temperament was definitely unsuited for the children's team. I even recall her at the Family Court after our daughters were taken from us for temporary fostering. She was accompanied by her supervisor, an older and a far more amenable woman. Also when Wendy visited our home for the very last time, after the children were taken, she arrived escorted by her supervisor. It all seem to confirm what I have overheard at our initial Conference back in November. Apparently the last family she dealt with fled to Scotland to escape her clutches. We were her last chance to prove herself, and sure enough, she failed. She had to go. But not before destroying our family. 

At the Isle of Wight with my firstborn.

Which led me to be offered a platform by the Berkshire Adoption Agency whose office was in Windsor. Here in my home town of Bracknell I was escorted to an empty office, quite likely the very room Wendy formerly occupied, and I became a key representative of the Berkshire Father's Group, a group of Dads across Berkshire who had all lost their children against their will for adoption. Why was I not surprised that all the Dads whom I met in that group were from a working class background? Not one middle-class father in sight. I was then interviewed by the agent. Here I explained that going by my experiences with Wendy, my opinion was that she was never suited for the job as Children's Social Worker. I also explained that whilst at the Family Court, I managed to take a peek at Wendy's CV lying unattended on a desk whilst she was momentary absent, perhaps talking to an official. She emphasised her attendance at a posh girl's school before attending university. She listed all her qualifications on her CV, school and college alike with much detail.

And there is the rub. Wendy, who was employed by an agency rather than directly by the Council, was hired because of her educational qualifications and her degree in humanistic studies, and not because she had an empathy towards families, whether parents or children alike. Or to put it another way, she wanted a job where she can be in control. I also blamed her employers for "bowing the knee" - so to speak - at her academic qualifications without taking into consideration that her character and personality remains incompatible with the job at hand. I then said that her employers must realise that such an occupation involves supporting people - people with lives to lead, with responsibilities, and with free will, thoughts and emotions, and not as mere factory-made products.

The agent was taking down notes. Did I make an effort to shake the whole local Social Service Department down to its foundations? I really hope that I did. I campaigned and pressed hard that such hiring of unsuitable candidates will never happen again. Social work is about empathy, not academic qualifications. So I said at that interview.

Over the years, to live in a deafeningly silent house took some taking used to. Fortunately, the use of both Hi-Fi and television, and later the introduction of the laptop proved to be immensely beneficial. However for months even years following our daughter's adoption, I experienced fits of intense rage. I had visions of the perfect murder! But there was nothing I could ever do. After her dismissal, Wendy disappeared completely, apparently out of our area entirely, for she was never seen again. Not only was I enraged at Wendy for destroying our family, but with the whole of England and with the English, because Wendy was the personification of England and its culture. She was a State official, representing the State. Her supreme boss was sitting as a member of the Cabinet at 10 Downing Street, home of Her Majesty's Government.

Then some three years after our first two daughters were adopted, Alex gave birth to our third daughter. The Social Services were then around us like bees around honey (informed by our GP). But this time, at the Conference to re-enter our names on the Child Protection Register, my wife and I both agree to give our daughter away for adoption, as long as we remain off the Register. It was agreed. The reason for this was not just for our welfare. Equally important, it was for our daughter's wellbeing as well. If being on the CPR means a repeat of Wendy-like experiences, then our daughter would have grown up in a very unhappy environment. She would have suffered mentally, emotionally, then later physically as well. Far better to give her away on a voluntarily basis to a couple who would provide her with a happy home and a safe environment. Fortunately, her adoptive parents are committed Christians.

Over the intervening years to the present, our marriage grew stronger as we learn to support each other. Much of this came by recognising the sovereignty of God, to give my wife all the love, support and comfort as she grieves over her loss. Also her mental state may be connected with her encroaching disability until, after spending four months in hospital during the Autumn of 2013, she now gets about in a motorised wheelchair I bought for her. However, I have committed all three of our daughters to God's care, and my prayer being that he will touch their hearts, just as he did ours. To hear that all three have trusted Jesus Christ as Saviour would be the best news we could ever hear.

So the reason for writing such a blog as this one? Over an incident which took place a few evenings ago. I told Alex that I have forgiven Wendy and her associates for what she had done. In actual fact, I have forgiven her a few years ago. Not for her sake but for my sake, and to allow God to have his will fulfilled in my life. Therefore when I made a passing statement to Alex that I have forgiven Wendy, she went into hysteria. Shedding buckets of tears, she asked how could I possibly do such a thing? What kind of a husband am I? They are our children. She then went unconscious, and because such emotions causes her breathing muscles to tighten, I had to enable her to breathe properly by manipulating her chest. I was that close to panic and the need to call an ambulance.

She eventually came to, but there was a coldness towards me. Instead of petting and affectionate talk, as was the norm, she told me to go to my computer because she just wants to sleep. I tried to persuade her that I'm no traitor. It was no intention to show her betrayal. Feeling lonely on the computer, I played a video on You-Tube, Cold As Christmas by Elton John. Has our marriage came to an end? The coldness remained for the rest of the next day. Only now our marriage is restoring itself to normality.

Alex is unable to forgive Wendy. To her, she destroyed our family and therefore cannot be forgiven for it. That may be the reason for her present disability. It is a viscous circle she remains locked into. As Jesus himself said,

Without me ye can do nothing - John 15:5.

Alex cannot forgive Wendy in her own strength. Only the Spirit of God could soften her heart to the extent in changing her mind. In other words, she needs a miracle. As a matter of fact, we both need a miracle. A miracle to reveal the power of God in our lives that would forever change us for the better. 

  

The Wisdom of Sun Seekers...

One particular day in an English town of Gotham, a group of men were rejoicing when they erected a fence around a bush on which on one of its branches a cuckoo was perched.

"Now you can sing for us!" 

But the bird took off and flew away without a single note sung.

"Oh dear. We did not make the fence high enough."

The official who witnessed the incident rebuked them with the words:

"You fools! Don't you realise that the bird would fly away no matter how high the fence is?"

"Dear me! We never thought about that!"

The official walked further along, and eventually came to a brook where twelve men had spent the day fishing. As some were wading into the water, they decided upon a head-count to ensure nobody had drowned. But as one counted all the others, he did not count himself, and therefore numbered eleven only. The passing official asked if there was a problem. 

"Yes there is! Twelve of us came here this morning, but there are only eleven of us now. One of us must have drowned!"

Then the official instructed, "Do another head-count."

Each of the men counted the others except himself, and each time the number came up to eleven.

"What will you give me to find your missing brother?"

"An agreed sum of money."

The official snapped his whip across the shoulders of each man present whilst counting each one until the full twelve was reached.

"There is your missing brother."

Oh thank you sir! Thank you for finding our missing brother!"

The next day the official came across a trader who was on his way to the market, pushing a wheelbarrow loaded with round blocks of cheese. One of the cheeses fell off the barrow and began to roll down the hill.

"Well I wonder! Why should I carry you all the way to the market if you can make your own way there?"

 The official then watched the man empty the barrow of the cheeses, and each one rolled down the hill, one at one direction, another at another direction until they were all out of sight, whilst others made their way towards the bushes where they came to rest. Feeling optimistic, he then declared to the official,

"These cheeses have certainly gone far. I guess they know where to find the market by themselves."

He then called out:

I'll see you all at the market!

But as he arrived at the market, he saw no sign of any of his merchandise. He spent the rest of the day there looking for his cheese blocks, strolling along the rows of stalls in the hope of meeting his stock, and even asking other stallholders whether they have seen any of his cheese come this way, but as far as the officials were aware, this fellow never saw his cheeses again.

So all the officials, who were scattered around the town, returned to King John, and told him everything they had seen and heard, for there were several other foolish acts which took place in Gotham which were witnessed by all of them. The king was indeed amused by it all.

Much fiction has been made about King John, son of King Henry II of England. King John reigned for seven years between April 1199 until his death in 1216. These stories were based on real history. One of his historic campaigns was to raise revenue to fund his efforts to reclaim the French province of Normandy after Philip II's invasion of the land in 1204. One way to raise such funds was through heavy taxation of his subjects. And that is where the above three stories of the men of Gotham fits in. King John, hated by many, was to pass through Gotham in order to reach Nottingham, a few miles to the north. By checking Google Maps, Gotham does exist in real life. It is a small town south of Nottingham, and a road from the south passes through on the way north to the city.

And so when the citizens of Gotham heard that their king was to pass through their town, they were immediately alarmed. Their fear that any financial security they had enjoyed was under threat of taxation, and therefore they cut down trees to lay across the road, forming an adequate barrier blocking the monarch's progress. Angry, he returned to London while his ambassadors remained in Gotham to both assess their tax potential and to have the blockade dismantled. And while such assessments were made, these officials came across such foolishness among the town's residents. They reported the matter to the king, who in turn laughed and promised not to disturb a town of fools.

Their ploy had worked. Rather than being foolish, instead they were at their height of wisdom. Their incomes remained safe from the heavy tax burden King John had levied on the rest of the nation.

Wind forward over eight hundred years and at present there seem to be another apparent act of foolishness which was reported nationwide through the media. That is in a story of a hotel by the Atlantic Ocean. Indeed, as I write, the first weekend of August - and in the midst of the holiday season - little wonder that I have heard of this time of the year being "the silly season". A story appeared in a national newspaper this week of how all the guests in a hotel all got up early each morning to reserve their sunbeds by the poolside by throwing their towels on them before filing into the restaurant for breakfast. Hotel Servatur Waikiki in Gran Canaria opens its doors for access of the pool precisely at 8.00 every morning. In readiness of this opening, a crowd of mainly British sun-seekers are waiting. As soon as the doors are open, it is a literal stampede to the better located sunbeds for reservation before breakfast. A towel is thrown on a chosen sunbed, and its owner returns to the hotel until later. A whole stampede - not of cattle - but of grown-up humans! 

They give a wise word of wisdom. First, if these sunbeds are left free until mid-morning, they would find them all taken by their rival German tourists. Secondly, because the UK have such drab Summers, there was a national medical report about a threat of low levels of Vitamin D, a vital health sustainer mainly sourced from sunshine. Although I have not come across any cases of rickets, nevertheless, to have a lack of Vitamin D is certainly not nice to health, and could even lead to cancer and cardiac problems, as well as weak bone structure and muscle pain. And so, blessed with such information, sun-seekers desperate for that much-need sunshine ensure that they get it, stampede notwithstanding! After all, two weeks of sunshine out of fifty-two weeks of the year of constantly miserable British weather is a must-have. And therefore I tend to wonder how many times such scenarios are repeated in sunshine spots, especially around the Mediterranean as well as at the Canary Islands.

The Hotel Servatur Waikiki has five hundred beds, according to the media, and there are only 150 sunbeds. Indeed for the need of a pre-breakfast stampede. What a contrast, for example, to the hotel where Alex and I spent our tenth wedding anniversary in the Greek island of Rhodes. I recall the first morning after our arrival when we decided to visit the poolside. We were the only two people there. The few sunbeds which were around the poolside were all vacant. Having the entire swimming pool to ourselves at eight in the morning was a dream-come-true - before mid-morning, which by then the area was crowded with British tourists. 

But then, that's not the point. Pardon me if I seem to lack wisdom here, but if sunbathing to boost Vitamin D is so crucial, then I cannot work out why such a need for a sunbed is so necessary if there is a beach so close by. And I wouldn't be at all surprised if there are more sunbeds awaiting hire - Wait! That's it! Sunbeds awaiting hire. That means paying extra for a day's use of the sunbed. That was how it was like in Greece. The entire beach lined with sunbeds which has to be paid for. We Brits don't like that. An all-inclusive holiday should mean exactly that - every facility already paid for. No surcharges. No extras. Yet we went to a Greek island three times: twice to Rhodes and once to Kos, and if I recall, we only used the beach sunbed twice - once in Rhodes at a resort of Lindos, some miles away from our hotel, and once at Kos. Generally, sunbeds are far from a necessity whilst away from home. A short walk along the beach and there is always a suitable spot somewhere to lay down the towel. And some of these spots are among rocks which adds a touch of drama to the scenery, as well as greater chance of avoiding sand lodging between our toes, which is often why I find sandy beaches irritating.

Then again, the idea of spending the whole day on a sunbed, whether at our hotel or at the beach, has never been my thing. Maybe once in a while, but certainly not every day. There are far more fulfilling ways to spend a vacation than just sunbathing. That is to check out the environment we found ourselves in. A bit of exploring, sightseeing - even if it means standing in a crowded bus or train. To walk through an archaeological site, to admire the tropical or Mediterranean flora making up a beautiful garden, to hike a trail passing through spectacular environment - whether its a waterfall cascading through a rain forest, admiring a mountain range, snorkelling over a coral reef, or hiking through a desert populated with cactus - or craning my neck inside a beautiful cathedral. And there is always room for fun - swimming in the sea or pool, a ride on a roller-coaster, enjoying some nightlife without the need for alcoholic intoxication. Such life-enriching activities to be enjoyed without the need to stampede for a hotel sunbed.  

Cairns, Australia 1997 - on a ferry to the Great Barrier Reef

And perhaps that was why before I married, package hotel holidays were anathema to me. Back in those days I would have shunned such hotels for the backpacker's hostel, a double bedroom for a dormitory bunk-bed, ranger-led tours for a map or guidebook, and a luxury coach for a hiking trail. From single-destination trips to go-as-you-please independent multiple-stop itineraries. Even after we married, trips abroad was far more to do with sightseeing than chasing a sunbed. To sum up: a fulfilling trip while still soaking in the sun. And an album of interesting, memory-enhancing photos.

And all this has made me ask: I wonder what Jesus Christ would have said or done had he found himself surrounded by a crowd of people about to stampede to the poolside, all in a rush to grab a sunbed? Interesting point. Coming to think of it, I wonder how he would have made out with the people of Gotham during the start of the Thirteenth Century? Would he had commended them for their shrewdness? Or exhorted them to pay their burdening taxes to an egocentric king? Or would he have made a comparison between the wisdom shown by these Thirteenth Century men of Gotham with the present horde of sun-seekers out to grab a sunbed?

I guess I already know what to do in this present-day situation. Stay in bed until it's time to file down for breakfast. Then shower and have breakfast before planning where to go for the day. As for the sunbeds, leave us out. Let them have them. They are welcome to them. While they stampede, we head off to the bus stop or railway station.

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

Beach Hedonism

Having just returned home from a short break, this holiday in Bournemouth was quite a learning curve, and very different from all the travel I had experienced throughout my lifetime. Because for the first time ever, our getaway involved a wheelchair in which my beloved sat, with myself pushing, often involving very steep ramps, as our hotel was located on a clifftop, and no matter which direction we took, we could not arrive at our hotel entrance without a stiff climb preceding it. Then the hotel was not really wheelchair friendly, as both the doorstep and the reception, just inside, involved steps. Fortunately, my wife Alex is what you may call semi-disabled. That is, she is able to get out of the chair and climb the stairs without aid before needing to get back in, making this an identical situation as at home, where she does not use the wheelchair at all - a big improvement from October of the previous year, when she was totally unable to move her thigh and leg muscles.

 

One of the highlights of the holiday were the long walks along the promenade, which connected Bournemouth with the neighbouring towns of Poole at one side, and Boscombe on the other, with the walkway linking all three without a single incline - such a blessing when it was constructed at a set distance above sea level. I have to admit, there was something euphoric in my spirit as I pushed the wheelchair over several miles. During these walks, I was able to look at Alex's head directly in front of me and felt such love for her pouring out of my heart - maybe because she depended on me entirely for her welfare and wellbeing. It seemed as an exact replica of the risen Jesus loving his bride, the church, both as individual believers and corporately as a body.

 

 

 

But not all was peaches and cream, the dream holiday everybody longs for. The weather was hot with unbroken sunshine, a heatwave by which we underestimated the strength of the sun. So on the day we lay on the beach and swam in the sea, we got sunburned, both of us, but the pain we did not feel until after we had returned to the hotel for the evening. Having a cold bath partially relieved the symptoms, but by the morning of the next day, we took action to buy a sunburn cream containing Ibuprofen, a non-inflammatory painkiller, and applied this liberally to the affected areas of our bodies. Indeed the aching did subside, and we both felt better afterwards, properly dressed and ready to start the first of our two walks, the longer one to Poole and back, with the sunburn virtually forgotten.

 

But for poor Alex, the cream had a side effect, causing her face to puff up, along with her feet, by the following evening. After she had watched the vast crowd of locals, visitors and holidaymakers enjoying their time at the beach and taking their mobility for granted, my dear beloved, away from the crowds, broke into tears. As I comforted her with tenderness, I assured her that my love and devotion to her will never ever fail, and I will be with her until my time is up. Once married always married. On top of this, I have encouraged her not to let her faith fail, and I gave her an example from the Old Testament character Job, who experienced the loss of all his children bar one, and the loss of all his possessions, and finally the loss of his health until he reached a point of hanging on to life by a hair. Yet, despite of all that, he declared:

 

I know that my Redeemer lives, and that in the end he will stand upon the earth.

And after my skin has been destroyed, and yet in my flesh I will see God;

I myself will see him with my own eyes, - I, and not another.

How my heart yearns within me!

Job 19:25-27.

 

"I will see God." l will see God. The eternal security Job obviously felt about the afterlife was enough to strengthen Alex's spirit, and mine too. It was sufficient for the rest of the holiday not to be spoilt, and although the sunburn did gives us gyp, particularly at night, believing in the eternal promises of God was very re-assuring for both of us.

 

Yet the initial cause of my wife weeping as she sat in her wheelchair was the sight of so many people in such a holiday mood, as the sun shone, brightening up the whole environment into vivid colours and contrasts. Yes, we did see a few other wheelchairs about, but we could count on the fingers of just one hand the few we did see, compared to the countless individuals, couples, group of friends, and families, all sauntering along with probably no thought of their ability to walk normally without assistance. And on one evening, when we decided to stay in town until late at night, I especially, was taken in by the large group of revellers having barbecues on the sandy beach, with not a few actually having a late-night swim in the sea, with just the pier lights for illumination. The raucous, shouting, laughter, and generally messing about among them did not pose any threat of violence. Quite unusual, so I thought, for the British do have a reputation for alcohol, drunkenness, vomiting, violence and hospitalisation, not to mention a night spent in a police cell, particularly abroad, with the Mediterranean island of Ibiza being one of the top destinations for young Brits during the Summer. But as we drew nearer the crowd, I began to notice the dominance of both foreign languages and broken English. The crowds having a whale of a time seem to be mainly from abroad, who were able to revel without all those alcohol-related setbacks. At the same time the bright lights of the fun fair, in the town's main square, throbbing with life and loud music as more of these revellers opted for a ride.

 

The general age range seems to be in their twenties, which gave me a clue that they were likely students. But whatever the reason why they were here, has got me to ponder a little - or a lot, maybe. How would Jesus Christ had re-acted in this joyous environment? This question had got me to think how things were during the Victorian or Edwardian age. During those days, so according to some of the pictures I have seen, the coast would have been populated by smartly-dressed English genteel, who would have been offended by the sight of too much flesh exposed.

 

With their tight formal dress, I have wondered whether our hot Summers are a modern phenomenon, because the weather always looked so dull in these illustrations! But assuming that hot Summers were as prevalent in those days as at present, these people certainly knew how to endure their body heat in such constricting attire. It was such a vivid contrast to the present day, when during a typical weekday, we saw no more than half a dozen neck-ties worn, out of multiple thousands of males, many with just a tank top, vest or singlet. As we heard several times a swear word floating in the air, I could not help but ponder on the tiny percentage who regularly attend church, a massive contrast to the bygone days when Sunday church-going was all but mandatory for everyone.

 

Then I recall my own childhood days as a boy, wearing a suit and tie whenever we attended church. I also recall the day when I took the first Holy Communion at age thirteen - I have a picture of myself resembling a groom at a wedding. Then putting it all together, to me, there has always been a strong connection between formal attire and regular church attendance.

 

Do the average unbeliever or un-churched really think this? I have to admit that I don't really know for sure. But this was one main reason why I was very anti-church during my later teenage years. And going by the way the Victorians dress and their majority who attended church, indeed - if he was alive on earth today, I couldn't help but imagine Jesus walking along the promenade with a permanent scowl, judging and condemning the entire population for their skimpy attire, being drunk, swearing, having fun, and not attending church each week. To add to this, he would also condemn those who attend church dressed informally, with either tee-shirts, or open-neck shirts without a tie, and the ladies attending wearing low neckline attire and lacking a headscarf. As my father-in-law once said to me: attending church in casual dress, to him, is being disrespectful to the Lord.

 

And how would the Lord respond to the huge beach party with its barbecues and late-night swimming? And heaven forbid, not to mention the fun-fair, with its flesh-centred sensuality. Would he mingle around in his wrath, looking for at least one person formally dressed in Victorian attire, or at least in modern suit and tie? And not finding at least one "righteous" person, let alone ten, (Genesis 18:32) - would he call upon Heaven to send down fire and destroy them all? Or preach a loud message of judgement? Or at least turn his back and walk away, letting them all perish in their own iniquity?

 

No, not at all! I think it would be just the opposite. If Jesus was around at the massive beach party, what he would have wanted to do was to attract their attention in order to gracefully shower love, healing and forgiveness of sins abundantly. So the following scenario is what I personally believe what might have occurred if Jesus Christ was present that night:

At first, he would select someone with an infirmity, such as my wife in the wheelchair, with the right time and place set by his Father in Heaven. Then he would perform a healing miracle, purposely in the crowd, to attract attention. With growing astonishment together with an equally growing sense of curiosity among those who witnessed the miracle, two, three, maybe even four with physical disabilities approached him and they were all healed. With attention fixed on him, he would begin to preach - not  with a judgemental attitude, but with a smile, his words flowing with grace and meekness. Eventually, one of the many groups in the crowd would ask him to join them at their barbecue. As he sits by the fire, he takes a roll, a couple of beefburgers, and after bowing his head in prayer, instructs the group in charge of the barbecue fire to distribute to all who wishes to partake. Then by the fireside, he preaches the Kingdom of Heaven, the reality of sin, the need for forgiveness, and the need to believe in him alone in order to enter Heaven. Rather than condemn the beach party, he offers something more richer, more permanent, and with the ability to face up to life's adversities - living water, welling out of the belly of all who believe, and eternal life. As a result, a great many in the crowd would turn and follow him.

Then by chance a coach pulls up nearby, and around fifty immaculately dressed ladies and gentlemen alight to make their way to the pier. Their attention was instead drawn to the crowd on the beach beside the pier. After listening to Jesus preach and perform miracles for an hour or two, they all conclude that this man cannot be from God, because he mixes with the common rabble with their skimpy singlets and topless torsos. Furthermore, he actually makes friends with foreigners, and with the lowlife scum who most likely had never seen the inside of a church. This was an insult to their own nationality, their religion, and their own righteousness. Didn't they go to church Sunday after Sunday without ever missing a week? And everyone attending always dressed immaculately in suits and ties of the finest tailoring, and the ladies in dresses with buttoned up necklines and wearing a headscarf. Weren't they very class conscious, making sure that they knew their place in society, and associated only with those of the same social stratum? Furthermore, they tut-tutted anything sensual, especially on the beach. As they sauntered along, their scowling faces watching with deep disapproval at a young, topless man hugging his bikini-clad girlfriend after both having had a swim in the sea. One of the gentlemen then called out:

Don't you have any manners, young man? It's about time you two attended church and learn some respectability!

In which his reply, containing vulgar language, was essentially saying to mind his own business. The gentleman, feeling rebuffed, reassured himself that he was doing the will of God, and Heaven was waiting for him, and such lowlife will suffer his own eternal doom.

The above was just a story, but I hope it brings out the differences between how Jesus would have re-acted in such an environment, and what I believe how many may perceive the churches to be like, a lot based on my own experience as a boy.