An Academic And Dumbo...

In one of Disney's classics, Dumbo, we have one of the characters reciting something akin to this:

I have seen a dragonfly, I have seen a horsefly, aye, I have even seen a housefly, but I have never seen an elephant fly!

Spot the odd one out.

Yes, you have quite likely got it right. The housefly of course! Dragons quite likely existed in real life in the past. After all, the Chinese take it so seriously in their New Year celebrations. And St George slaying the dragon, a patron saint of England, is he not? Or was he born at Cappadocia in Turkey around the third century AD and lived all his life around that vicinity? And a beast also identified as a dragon by the apostle John in the Bible.

Then there is Pegasus, a winged horse on which an ancient Greek hero Bellerophon tamed and rode upon to slay some weird creature, the Chimera. I have a hunch that the shoulder muscles of a typical horse are not adapted to carry a pair of wings. Moreover, to get such a large animal off the ground, wouldn't it need a large hydrogen sac under its spine? Then with the gas generated by bacteria living inside it, together with a skeleton built of light, hollow bones, like that of any bird? Surely, it was this bacteria-generated hydrogen in a large sac and a light-structured skeleton which enables the dragon to fly. As for the elephant, hmm, it's lucky enough just to momentary stand on its hind legs.

Oh, how I love to apply real-life science to popular myths! Who knows, it might prove that winged horses were a reality in the past, and perhaps there might even have been a pair in Noah's ark!

Dumbo was different though. He managed to train his huge ears, characteristic of the African Elephant species, to make them aerodynamic enough to fulfil the imaginations of young children. And also successful enough to enable Disney's theme parks in both California's Santa Ana and Florida's Orlando, into very profitable businesses aimed in entertaining the family. As far as I remember, Disneyland in California did feature a Dumbo ride. However, I left Dumbo for the kids and went for the much gutsier Space Mountain indoor roller-coaster, indeed, making this fast ride the climax of the 1977 and 1978 visits.

As for the housefly, with the house being inanimate making it the odd one out...well, I'll leave that to your imagination. Except that through man's ingenuity, the flying house does now exist! Only it's owned or used privately by royalty or the mega-rich. Passenger aeroplanes have known to be bought and had its interior renovated to function as a self-contained suite, and the owner or the hiring passenger can live in it as comfortably whilst at 35,000 feet, or 10,670 metres high in the air.

The Greek hero Bellerophon astride his winged mount soaring into the air would be of special interest to TV presenter and author Prof Michael Scott. This is one fellow I happen to admire. This Warwick University Professor of Classics and Ancient History holds a PhD, an M.Phil and a BA, along with twelve academic awards, including the National Teaching Fellowship which is the highest award any academic can get. He wrote seven books and made contributions into four encyclopedias. He wrote several reviews including into national newspapers, along with 22 academic papers and thirteen different articles. He also delivered 17 lectures and 12 tutorials.

Wow! What a Big Shot he is. Yet what was it which brought out my admiration of him? Basically, his down-to-earth personality which excludes snobbery. Being "stuck up" - this "them-and-us" characteristic of such educated people was absent, making him instantly likeable. This is endorsed by the casual dress he always wore when presenting his documentaries on television, such as one programme shown only last night which was shot in Cairo. Never seen in a suit and tie, but instead appears with his shirt unbuttoned, and thus identifying himself as one with the rest of us.

And earlier this year, just before the Coronavirus breakout, not only I had the privilege to attend one of his lectures at the University of London on the ancient Roman city of Herculaneum, but also to ask him personally a question on what has become of the upturned hull of a boat that was found there.

He was stumped. He couldn't answer my question. And for such a learned man such as he, I was quite mystified. Fortunately, an archaeologist was nearby who also heard my question and answered it for me. For the record, the Roman boat was carefully excavated and is now housed in a museum nearby.

Prof Michael Scott.

Maybe I have betrayed my own ignorance in that room, rather than that of the professor. I was unaware of the probability that Ancient Greek Classics is a different subject altogether from Archaeology. And I asked a question touching on archaeology rather than classics, even if the lecture was about what was excavated rather than fighting among ancient Greek gods.

But I have found that believing in the fable of Bellerophon astride Pegasus is very different from believing in the historicity of Divine Creation. The latter is very relevant to day-to-day living. And daily dependency on God.

A few years ago, one of our church members, himself an academic and author, in a sermon touching on the first chapter of Genesis, he levelled its historicity to an ancient Babylonian fable, the Enuma Elish, telling on how the Universe, our earth and all life was created by a pantheon of warring deities, where jealousy and murder were involved. With himself being an academic, I wouldn't be at all surprised that many of his listeners had fallen into the trap, being a learned scholar, therefore his word being taken and believed on as authentic.

Here I believe that differentiating between the historicity of the Bible from ancient Babylonian, Greek and Roman fables to be vitally important for the credibility of the Gospel of Jesus Christ. And faith in the Gospel can be stretched to the limit when earlier in the week, my beloved felt woozy, dizzy and experienced a headache. So she phoned a non-emergency medical call centre. After describing her recent breast cancer history, a clinician phoned back with a suggestion that either she has an infection in her middle ear, or terrifying enough, her cancer had moved to her brain, and as such, an ambulance will be sent to take her to the hospital.

Once there, I received a phone call with the news that she will be due for an X-ray on the next day and therefore will be kept in overnight. She has a mobile phone that is mistakenly set not to receive calls, but with it, she can only make calls. And so I was alone at home, unable to get to her nor to the hospital staff either. I was totally under the mercy of providence.

The next morning the phone rang. It was Alex, and I was prepared to hear the news of her discharge. But instead, she says that she was tested positive with Coronavirus, and will be transferred to the ward for patients with Covid-19. I was stunned with shock! Whenever imagination runs wild, this was one occasion.

Visions of my beloved entered my mind, Visions of her in an isolation unit with a ventilator down her throat, that dreadful phone call from the hospital bearing the news that she had passed away. I look around as I sat alone in our living room. Widowhood? No, I was not at all prepared for widowhood, and no one, no one, could ever replace her! Everything reminds me of her: all the little ornaments I bought for her throughout our marriage, the photographs of her and us on holiday, everything else which are specifically hers, all these are around me.

Have you ever felt that you want to cry and shed bucketloads of tears, but somehow can't? Indeed, that was how I was feeling - a twisted cord of emotions, yet the Endocrine system of glands responsible to get me to actually cry remains stubbornly inactive.

I contacted all five of our Elders by email to set up a prayer network within our church for Alex. Prayer. Prayer based on faith in Jesus Christ - his death by crucifixion, his burial and his resurrection after three days. And belief in Divine Creation as historical being so vital for the veracity of the Gospel and the power of prayer which arises from it.

It was a terrible day. Caught in an emotional vortex, I also suffered loss of appetite. It was in the afternoon when the phone rang again. Expecting the worst, Alex informed me that preparations for discharge were made. I felt a flush of relief, then a feeling of frustration when it was said that before she can go home, she is to have her X-ray done on the advice of the clinician. But being busy, as she had to get behind a queue of patients before her turn came up. This, along with a delay in transport home, it was into the night before she finally arrived home, more than 24 hours after her departure to the hospital.

Can a house fly? Nowadays it can. Inside a modified airliner.

Now we are both at home together. She's on self-isolation for one week, I'm on for two weeks. In the days to come, we both need to watch for any deterioration of health in either of us. The dread of the ventilator or even widowhood hangs above us like a dark cloud.

But there is one very important thing we both must understand during these difficult times. God is in full control. He knows what's in our hearts, how we think and feel our fears, sorrows, and anticipations. God is fully in control, and as I said to Alex, our God is not too small after all, neither can anything happen behind his back.

Right now, neither of us are displaying any symptoms. But neither are we sitting on our laurels. We are hoping that these next couple of weeks will pass without any incident.

But having faith in God is absolutely vital. And that included accepting the record of Genesis as historical. As for lowering the Bible to the level of myth, there is no edification in reading or listening to the stories found in the Enuma Elish. As a matter of historical fact, I think that Dumbo with his aerodynamic ears is far more edifying than any stuff found in those Babylonian myths.

Tears on the London Underground.

It was one those unusual evenings after alighting at London Waterloo Station when I thought a walk across the River Thames on a traffic-free footbridge would be more fulfiling than boarding a London Underground, or Tube train, direct from the mainline terminus.

An old route has recently been reopened. After being closed off for several years due to the presence of a huge redevelopment project, a footbridge now crosses the busy York Road into South Bank, where two newly-built skyscrapers reaching heavenward stand side by side, with a pedestrian concourse in between, giving easy access to Jubilee Park which fronts the river, itself dominated by the huge bicycle wheel-like London Eye, erected twenty years earlier to commemorate the start of the new Millennium.

London Eye across Jubilee Gardens.

The presence of these sky-high buildings, along with the noise of busy traffic behind, made me feel very small and insignificant. And indeed, whilst at the otherwise deserted concourse, a mother and two young children were making their way in the opposite direction, towards Waterloo. The mother was frustrated with her daughter, looking to be six or seven years old. Although she was telling her off for something, her foreign tongue prevented me from understanding what she was saying to her. The sole parent was also wheeling a pushchair, within a two-year-old boy was strapped, his cheeks run with tears as he was screaming his protest. By looking back after they had passed, the reason for his tears became obvious. Poor Mum, thinking only for the best for her son, attempted to cover his head with a woolly balaclava, only to be violently whipped off immediately whilst the child cried even louder.

There was something about the whole scene which hit me hard. The two huge and intimidating skyscrapers, with us in between, the roar of nearby traffic. And the sight of a screaming two-year-old whose wails contrasted so feebly with the traffic noise. All in all, a picture of minuteness in a huge, uncaring world. I felt my emotions slide into a deep depression.

Halfway across the gardens, I was approached from behind by an Afro-Carribean, in his twenties, who asked me where he can find Eye-Park. A very suspicious question indeed. Whether he was referring to the gardens we were at, or Hyde Park (quite a distance from where we were) or some other location I had never heard of before, I just turned around and, I hope, with an aggressive expression, I said I don't know. He beat a rapid retreat. Being very aware of sly pickpocketing gangs using this very approach to avert attention, I was very wary, checking that I hadn't lost anything.

I approached Embankment Station on the other side of the river, and after passing easily through the barriers, it was only a few moments later, whilst sitting at the platform, when tears were rolling down my own face. The young child back at that concourse brought out all mental images of my beloved, first her present absence, then her illness, her hair loss during chemotherapy, now her daily trips to Guildford for radiotherapy, in addition to our own daughters growing up elsewhere...I felt no shame as my tears flowed, only to be interrupted by the rumbling of the train slowing down as it enters the tubular station.

As the train doors opened and those who wanted to alight had all done so, there was this gent with a holding case just standing there on the platform edge, outside the waiting train, blocking my entry just as the doors were about to shut. I muttered:
For heaven's sake, get in there!
He stepped in with me immediately following. He then launched into a tirade. How dare that I hurried him to board the train! I had a choice. I could either:
A. With my clenched fist, force him to swallow his own teeth, or
B. Ignore his tirade and move away along the carriage.

With the train packed with many standing, including both of us, I thought B was the better option. After all, a scene was what I just did not want, being on board a crowded train, and then the police, etc, etc.

At last, I alighted at the street at Russell Square. Directly opposite the station is a Pret A'Manger Coffee bar. I was hungry so this was quite a welcoming sight. Yes, as soon as I had settled down with a cappuccino and croissant, another Afro-Caribbean or one of Asian origin, looking to be in his late twenties or early thirties, approached my table from behind, asking for small change. Despite my anger, I just told him to go away without swearing or being too rude. I was amazed when he went around all the other tables, including one occupied by two women, with the same request. No one gave him anything. And rightly so. He looked healthy, well-fed, and clothed reasonably well. Not only that, but outside in the street, I saw him prattling around without any sign of distress, asking passersby for money. Homeless? He looked to be a fake.

Gosh, what a journey! Four separate incidences within just a couple of miles and feeling down in the pits. But where was my final destination? It was at Senate House of the University of London, where I was to attend a lecture delivered by Prof Michael Scott, who is also a BBC TV presenter on classical archaeology, on the same par as BBC presenters Brian Cox or Simon Reeve. Tonight's theme was about the ancient city of Herculaneum, destroyed by the eruption of Mt Vesuvius in AD 79.

I felt all my negative emotions melt away as I entered the Woburn Suite fifteen minutes before the start of the lecture, feeling far more relaxed and content. As I occupied a seat on the second row from the front, I did notice that the majority of attendees making up the audience were senior citizens, very much unlike the audience of Oxford students who attended a debate two weeks earlier at Trinity College. These were not only predominantly senior citizens but they had an upper-middle-class look about them. Yet the topic of Herculaneum was always something of interest, going way back to 1973 while backpacking Italy, the train I was in flew through the station of Portici Ercolano whilst on its way to Salerno from Central Naples, to alight at Pompei to visit the excavations.

I felt a sense of anticipation as I watched the professor talking to one important-looking elderly chap, dressed in suit and tie, before commencing on his talk. During his lecture, there was one item of discussion which, to me stood out from the rest of the life and events of Herculaneum, and that was to do with the effects of the eruption. People attempting to hide from the pyroclastic blast were annihilated instantly. This including the boiling of the blood and other body fluids to complete dryness in 560-degree Celcius heat. But what I found most striking of all was the brain of one individual vitrified into a glass fragment as the hot blast hit him. Scott spent quite a bit of his lecture on this alone, explaining that the early archaeologists thought that the glass fragment, which was found inside the victim's skull, were pieces of jewellery until laboratory testing proved otherwise.

This glass fragment is actually a vitrified human brain.

Another view of the same glass fragment found inside a skull.

A human brain vitrified into a piece of glass? Isn't glass made from sand mixed with some silicone heated to a very high temperature? In other words, glass is sand which as been through intense heat. Yet he's speaking about a human brain, made of organic material consisting of billions of nerve cells - turning into a piece of glass!

I can't help but remember the Scriptures, that the first man, Adam, was created from the dust of the earth. After the Fall, God reminds our first parents that they were made from the ground, they are dust, and to the ground, they return (Genesis 3:19). How amazing then, that Science, Archaeology, and a secular Professor has all unwittingly endorsed the truth of Holy Scripture!

Following the lecture was question time. Unlike at Trinity College where the moderator decided whose question will be received, this time it was Scott himself who pointed at my raised hand. I then asked:
Sir, back in the eighties I had a copy of The National Geographic.* In it was an article about the find of an upturned hull of a boat found in one of the arches of Herculaneum. Archaeologists were very interested in the find, but with the interior concealed in mud, they were keen to discover how the Romans fared at sea. But the hull was scorched to charcoal and therefore very brittle to the touch. Has any more information about this boat come to light since the article was published?

Professor Scott looked flabbergasted as he tried to answer my question, then admitted his own unawareness of the boat. After the meeting officially closed the important-looking elderly chap dressed in his suit and tie then approached me in person.

He then went on to explain to me that yes, he is familiar with the boat, and it's now on display at the Pliny Museum, located on-site at Ercolano. Looking at his prominent breast identity badge, I could see that this fellow was Rob Fowler, chief Treasurer of the Herculaneum Society, which is responsible for annual escorted tours of the region, which he tells me that this year's trip is already fully booked up. Such visits allow visitors into parts of the excavations not open to the public. All members also receive literature, news and updates mainly on Herculaneum itself. Fortunately, he did not try to push any sales tat on me to join the club. Who knows, maybe I just don't look the posh type! Before I left, I shook hands with open-neck Professor Michael Scott himself, the TV celebrity, and thanking him on how well I have enjoyed the talk.

What a contrast of moods in just one evening. How I felt after seeing this mother and her two offspring, followed with my threefold reaction to different fellows at each situation has confirmed that unless I'm fully acquited by Jesus Christ and having his righteousness imputed into my account, there is absolutely no hope of Heaven after death. As such, believing in Once Saved Always Saved, or Eternal Security of the Believer is vitally crucial in my walk with God. Such reality of Biblical truth was as if forced upon me during the lecture. Here I was reminded of the awful, instantaneous deaths suffered by the people of Herculaneum and Pompei alike.

Were they greater sinners than I am today? By no means, according to Jesus himself. But unless I repent, I too will perish like they did (Luke 13:4) and unless I believe that he is, I too will perish in my sins (John 8:24.) To change my mind to believe that this Jesus of Nazareth is the risen Christ is the essence of repentance. But once having truely believed, my being becomes the home of the Holy Spirit and I forever become a son of God. That is wonderful news.

That's why I long for those who don't believe in Once Saved Always Saved to realise what a bad situation to be in. There are many such Christians, some I have known personally. Perhaps the idea of keeping the British stiff upper lip will prevent them from falling into sin. The trouble with that idea is that one can fall into sin just by harbouring a pleasant but unclean thought. Or to silently or under breath call someone an idiot without actually verbalising it. Really, how far into sin one sinks into before losing his salvation? No one can define where the line is, when crossed over, salvation is lost. But the Bible says that one who keeps the whole Law perfectly until he stumbles at just one point has already sinned, having broken the Law and is subject to judgement (James 2:10.) That's why God justifies the wicked or the ungodly through the imputed righteousness of Christ (Romans 4:5.) There is no other option.

Professor Michael Scott, whom I met personally.

Indeed, sin is still in me. John the Apostle agrees. In his first letter, he writes that anyone who says he is without sin is deceiving himself (1 John 1:8). Not surprising, as a human, I too suffer emotional turbulence - even as a believer in the risen Jesus Christ. And that had begun just by seeing a screaming two-year-old trying to survive in a big, noisy and apparently uncaring world. Yet, I did not sin when I saw the child. What has happened straight after, the emotional knock-on effect eventually led to sin.

I thank God for God's mercy - and not end up like any of those poor souls in Herculaneum.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
*National Geographic, vol 165, No.5. May 1984.