A "Neanderthal" Feeling Intimidated...

A typical weekday morning in August. For once, here in the UK, the usual circular area of low pressure that features the wind, the overcast sky, and the rain, which typifies an average British Summer, must have taken the day off and thus, allowed the sun to shine through the broken cloud. 

As I lay in bed beside my beloved, she made a suggestion. Why not go to Reading? The large town is now defined as a city but has little to show other than the view of the River Kennet as it passes through a modern shopping plaza before joining the River Thames, a little way north of the town. I thought, no, I was there only last week. A trip to London instead? Again, I felt little enthusiasm, but I decided to make a day out of it.

I guess that is what it's like, having retired from paid work due to both age and poor health combined. Not that I see myself as "old aged" - far from it - but being drugged to the hilt with prescribed medication to keep my heart beating at a regular pace... As for "Pensioner" - that's the name of the money I receive each week - a pension. Just as a professional receives a Salary and a manual worker receives his Wages, it's all the same thing, several names, but with equal spending power.

I picked up my camera immediately before leaving for the station. Knowing that I was carrying a camera suddenly inspired me to go to Oxford instead of London. At last, I had a specific purpose for the trip - to photograph some fossils at the University Museum of Natural History. The photos featured in this blog were all taken on this trip.

Oxford University Museum of Natural History

As far as I remember, I had visited this museum twice before. My first visit was with my beloved wife in her wheelchair, and my PhD friend, Andrew, who slowly wheeled her around the galleries while I was giving my full attention to the exhibits. My second visit was on my own a few months later. Both visits were made before the Coronavirus pandemic. On these occasions, I recall the museum having free admission. Therefore, I felt slightly alarmed when I saw what looked like a toll booth placed just outside its entrance.

While I paused, a pretty young female approached, holding a clipboard. She then asked me whether I had booked my timeslot on the Internet before arriving. I felt my skin crawl as I protested that I had come all this way and knew nothing about any online booking. Especially if I had merely walked straight in on my previous visits. Was I about to be turned away? Would I be looked upon as one refused admission by a nightclub doorman? Had I wasted thirty minutes of my life waiting at the station platform as I changed trains midway through the journey?

I think the young lady could see the shock on my face. Thankfully, she decided that I can be allowed in without any need to book. But first, I had to go to the kiosk, where a conversation was taking place between the assistant and another visitor, and I had to wait further until the visitor moved on.

The kiosk was not a toll booth but a "ping station" - where I had to give my name and home phone number. If I came into contact with an infected person, I would receive a phone call with the instruction to isolate myself for ten days. All written with a pencil on paper, as I don't even own a smartphone, let alone being a recipient of the hated "ping" app. At last, I was able to walk into the museum with a massive sigh of relief.

Petrified Crinoids, a soft body organism.

Oxford - a world-famous centre of advanced learning. The very city where young, fledgling medical doctors are in the making. Therefore, I assume that the precautions taken against the virus were more sensible at the museum than, say, all those crammed together in a sealed tube flying some 36,000 feet in the air, or even in a packed nightclub, restaurant, or bar. Indeed, the museum is probably the size of a cathedral. Or cavernous enough to have a high, vaulted roof and perhaps, an adequate ventilating system in operation, hence my freedom to question the need for advanced booking. Indeed, I'm grateful for her with the clipboard. She didn't stick to her formal protocol. Had she, I believe that I wouldn't have been alone in walking away feeling robbed, sad and dejected.

The shortest walking distance to the museum from the station was about a mile, 1.62 km, a twenty-minute trek for most people, according to Google Maps. But by having stiff leg muscles, the walk took me more than twenty minutes each way, probably up to thirty minutes. However, on the outgoing walk, I diverted into the city centre and once there, I had a lunch of tomato soup with a buttered roll, a side bowl of potato wedges and a cappuccino coffee at the Marks & Spencer cafe. Very refreshing and filling, too! But what I found most delightful was, after a fairly long wait for my meal to arrive, how my smile of relief has uplifted the waiter's spirits, enough for the two of us to hold a brief conversation.

The waiter was obviously an immigrant, although from exactly where I couldn't be certain, as I didn't ask. He looked Asian, quite likely Oriental. The incident had opened my eyes. In such a department store environment, there is usually a wait between ordering a meal and actually receiving it. This is even truer, I believe, during the busier lunch period when I chose to order. The tired expression on his face indicated that due to the waiting - complaints, moaning, and the flack thrown at him by customers constantly in a hurry had stressed him out.

Trilobites and Brittle Starfish all died at once.

For the waiter to see me grinning as I directed him to my table, and then receiving a hearty "Thank you" - out of relief that my appetite can now be satisfied - had indeed brought some spiritual refreshment into his otherwise dull existence. This, I find amazing. A smile, a word of appreciation, a gesture making him feel worthy, what an impact that can make! Sitting alone at that table made for one had brought more fulfilment than just a full stomach. After lunch, I continued my walk to the museum.

In the city centre, not a suit-and-tie was seen anywhere, especially in warm weather. But, as I walked through Parks Road towards the museum, a very different crowd passed by, walking in the opposite direction. They all looked incredibly smart. The men wore immaculate suits and ties. The women wore summer frocks or skirts. None of the females was wearing trousers. Some of the men even sported a white carnation in their breast pocket, giving me the impression that they were all attending a lavish wedding. Whatever venue they were heading to, it must have been very posh. Posh enough to arouse my curiosity.

Amazingly enough, after spending around two hours at the Museum, I saw the same posh crowd of young men and women I had seen earlier, heading in the opposite direction as I began my trek back to the station. As they walked past, my curiosity was again aroused, along with a feeling of frustration over my sense of curiosity remaining unfulfilled. One was on his own, a young man, perhaps young enough to be my grandson. As he approached, it was at the tip of my tongue to ask him what this was all about, where he had been and what he was doing. But I did not see any sign of an invitation for me to ask. Instead, he looked straight ahead as he walked past. This English-looking toff was a far cry from the Asian waiter I greeted earlier in the day.

Was I chicken? Perhaps. Or rather, compared to his tall height, slim physique, well-dressed Caucasian, I felt - and perhaps looked - more like a Neanderthal than a Cro-Magnon or simply a modern Homo-Sapien. My fear of being reproved by him was a deterrent from asking, and receiving this kind of answer:-

Where I've been or what I was doing, what business is that to you? 

Indeed, a rebuke I dreaded hearing coming from him. I have wondered whether this crowd were members of the notorious Bullington Club, a society made up from the cream of aristocracy, who attended public schools such as Eton, Harrow, Westminster, St Paul's, Winchester, and Rugby. Our former Prime Minister David Cameron and our present PM Boris Johnson were members of the Bullington Club - which was notorious for its drunken and lewd behaviour. Both leaders of our country were Etonians and former club members. Then I also remembered: the club is exclusively male, with no female members. The passing crowd of toffs at Parks Road, consisting of both men and women, doesn't fit the criteria.

My snap decision to come to Oxford instead of London, the meeting of the waiter at M&S, the sight of smartly dressed toffs marching past me and heading in the opposite direction - what is happening? The reason for visiting the museum was to take photos of some of the exhibits. It's perfectly legal. There are no notices posted anywhere within the building forbidding photography.

Close up view of petrified fish with scales intact.

This blog isn't about any attempts to disprove Evolution. There is enough Creationist's material available to do that. But here, I make a comparison between these smartly dressed Oxford University students (I assume that's who they were) and the likes of myself. Compared to them, I feel like a Neanderthal! Any idea that the Neanderthal was descended from Noah's family doesn't seem to sit well in either a physical, mental or cultural sense, at least, not with me, anyway. But here, the Bible can be reassuring. If the Cro-Magnon and the Neanderthal were both descendants of Noah, then there is nothing stopping them from interbreeding - and that is a theory supported by even the most secular of evolutionists. That means even these toffs, at the pinnacle of the most modern Homo Sapien species, are likely to have traces of the Neanderthal genome in the nucleus of each of their body cells.

The striking detail of petrified fish scales.

But had any of them were in the museum with me, he would laugh with scorn at any idea that these fossils were formed in a catastrophic flood a few thousand years ago. Can't I read the accompanying labels? They say these fossils are from the Jurassic Age, around 160,000,000 years old. That is why, although the details of the fish's scales remain intact, all these soft bodies had petrified. That is, the soft flesh had metamorphosed into stone by the infusing of minerals whilst buried beneath the seafloor.

I suppose here lies the contest between a well-educated toff and the common sense of the "Neanderthal". According to observations, most smaller fishes are eaten alive by larger predators. I would say that the vast majority of smaller fish are eaten alive. But those that die naturally very seldom settle on the seafloor, let alone buried in mud. They are either eaten by scavengers or decompose. The decomposition is normally caused by bacteria living in the water. The chance of a dead organism settling on the seafloor (or on the riverbed) is extremely rare. Yet, these fossils show multitudes of organisms that died suddenly at once and were instantly buried. A catastrophe such as the Flood, recorded in the Bible?

It was a great day out!

The Allegory of the Two Canteens.

It was one of those days when I had mixed feelings after returning to work after a month-long holiday. There I stood by my machine, a large precision metal-grinding lathe. As the front axle for a yet-to-be-built aeroplane was rotating on its spindle, my job was to transform the dull chrome coating of the exterior to a beautifully-polished mirror-like finish, yet keeping with the precise measurements specified in the drawing printed on the sheet dangling over the tool locker located next to the powerful machine.

The machine I worked on looked similar to this

It felt strange being back in such familiar surroundings once again. I looked up towards the ceiling, just to straighten my back a little. The roar of a crane passing overhead, running on railway lines fixed close to the inside of the roof, all the way from one end of the huge building to the other. The driver in the crane's cab stops his vehicle directly above a neighbouring machine and lowers the hook to be attached to a huge section of an aircraft to be lifted away from the milling machine, that particular stage of its construction completed.

Presently, two other workers, young men about my age, were passing through the workshop to go somewhere. One of them paused to take a good look at me as if thoroughly examining who I was. Then both approached, and asked,

Did you walk the streets of New Orleans French Quarter a few weeks ago?

I was stunned by their question and answered in the affirmative.

The two then explained that they too had taken a trip to the States at the same time as I did, and they too had travelled across the North American continent on the Greyhound bus in the same way as I did, using the same Go-As-You-Please Ameripass ticket, which was in those days in the form of a book of vouchers, each one valid for each stage of the journey. 

With some astonishment, the same one asked if I went all the way there on my own, which I answered that yes, I went on my own which was, for me, the normal manner of travel, whether near or far.

By heck, you're brave!

Brave? A rather unusual compliment, no doubt, but I felt exhilarated by their praise, nevertheless. But having already backpacked Italy, Israel, and lately, North America a year earlier in 1977, this second transatlantic trip completed in 1978 shouldn't, in my view, be classed as brave. Rather, I was just being myself.

Then again, perhaps to some, there may be a degree of bravery needed whilst stopping at New Orleans. After alighting from the Greyhound Bus at the end of a journey from San Antonio in Texas, I found a room at the YMCA in the new town area, a short walk from the French Quarter. At the communal showers, whilst freshening up after a long journey, an older man sat at a nearby bench, gazing lecherously at my groin. This sort of thing can be quite frequent during my 1970s travels, nevertheless, I still wouldn't classify such an experience as bravery, even if I felt uncomfortable in his presence.

But going back to the job at hand. There is something so satisfying in my role on the lathe. Especially on a part of an aeroplane, in this case, the front wheel axle. Such was a way to earn a living at British Aircraft Corporation, later changed to British Aerospace, due to its coupling up with the missile division of the same company, located in other areas of the UK. This was not long before I had to move on.

There was something about the shop-floor environment in which the unusual could happen. Like the time when a fellow worker, Martin by name, was transferred from the Apprentice Department, where small parts such as door handles and toilet seat hinges were made, to the adjoining milling department where much larger parts were worked on. He had a dislike for me, thinking that I might be gay. And he didn't keep quiet about that either. Therefore, a rumour about me was well known across the shop floor.

One afternoon, Martin had a huge, solid steel girder set up on his machine. Suddenly, the girder swung, flying off his machine and pinning him to the floor. The accompanying noise caught my attention. As I turned, I saw him gazing helplessly at me as he went down under the weight of the girder.

Others who watched the incident all burst out laughing. Nobody came to his assistance. Instead, they all kept on laughing at this lad's misfortune, perhaps seeing this as an entertaining distraction from the monotony of the day. But immediately, I went over and lifted one end of the long girder, allowing him to crawl out from underneath. Together, standing at each end, we lifted it back into place while he instructed me to hold it in place while he secured it. The laughter stopped. Martin restarted his rotary milling cutting blade while I returned to my own machine.

Whether it was the look of shock I had when I saw him go down or not, however, a new friendship was created. It was Martin who invited me into the firm's clubhouse and there he bought me a drink - in front of all his mates who held a bad reputation against me. They were all quiet, gazing at me as if feeling ashamed. This Biblical exhortation to "pour hot coals on the enemy's head" seems to have taken effect.

I saw Martin again sometime later. After several months, I could see the result of his prolonged unfulfillment in his life. His once-superb physique had ballooned out to a beer belly at still a young age.

New Orleans French Quarter. Visited 1978.

British Aerospace Works, at the Surrey town of Weybridge, was extensive during its heyday, with several buildings on the one site, which was a former motor racing track. That means, there were many office staff among us, housed in on-site office buildings. We all, in our department, had a locker assigned to each one of us, each containing a blue protective overall we had to wear during the working hours, hence the term, blue-collar workers. By contrast, the office staff came in dressed in a suit, shirt, and many (but not all) wearing a tie. As I have seen in the past, it was not difficult to tell those who excelled at school from those who didn't. 

What I had observed was that those at their desks were generally slimmer, more fitter and of athletic build than those who wore the blue overall. One office staff member, Trevor Thomas, was a Tug O' War champion whose image appeared in the 1979 edition of The Guinness Book of Records for winning three medals for England in the European Open Championships. When Thomas and I sat at the same dinner table one lunch hour, he asked me whether I recognised him from the famous book. When I answered that I didn't, his face dropped. Then, after pulling himself together, he explained to me the ins and outs of Tug O' War, and he also invited me to partake in the family tug to be held nearby, a few weeks later.

I didn't take part in the tug. By then, I already knew that from our chat at the dinner table, Thomas wanted the satisfaction to defeat me. A little unfair to say the least! A champion versus a first-time novice? However, on the day, his White-C team did win against our Blue-C team. Quite easily. From that day on, he seemed to have had a huff against me for not participating. 

By contrast, Martin was the symbolic representation of many who earned their keep on the shop floor. Here, there were several fatties around, especially from middle-age upwards. Moreover, Mr Thomas was ten years my senior. In turn, Martin was four or five years my junior. But the level of fitness between the two couldn't be more contrasting.

During its earlier days, there were two canteens, each exclusive from the other. One of them housed a series of vending machines and tables for the blue-collar to bring their own packed lunches. The other was for the office staff. It had a fully-equipped kitchen from where its staff dished out hot meals. There was a time when no blue-collar was allowed to enter white-collar territory!

Thanks to the trade unions, that had already changed shortly before my arrival. The result of this casual mixing was that I made friends with a few of the office staff members, with some easily intrigued by my sharing of the Gospel. I also picked up a hint that one or two of them became jealous of my venture across the Atlantic - and even showed hostility.

It was this class division - so symbolised by two separate canteens in one building - that I made every effort to cross and then bridge the social chasm. But then, if I rightly remember, I was the only employee of the entire company who had made an effort to bridge the two classes. None of my work colleagues did, and neither any from the other side made any conscious efforts either.

My strong conviction that the Bible is true stems from verses such a Galatians 3:28:

There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither slave nor free, there is neither male nor female; for you are one in Christ Jesus.

It's in this same letter where Paul writes about the sharp rebuke he had delivered to Peter, recorded in Galatians 2:11-14. Here, Peter - from a Jewish background - along with Barnabas, was eating with some Greek believers. Soon a group of Jewish Christians arrived. When Peter saw them coming, he and Barnabas immediately withdrew from the Greek company. It was then when Paul rebuked him in front of them all.

How much this reality is still needed in churches to this day! According to one newspaper article,* those without an adequate level of education tend to suffer greater distress and from greater uncertainty of the future. Alongside this, such favouritism given to those with higher education and higher social status, according to the article, not only makes those who failed at school feel inferior and maybe useless as well, leading to higher anxiety levels and subject to greater illnesses - but also does not demonstrate the power of God.

How I looked in 1978.

Most of my church life, all of 47 years of it, consist of middle-class culture. Unlike Peter, no Christian I have ever known had deliberately separated from me whenever I walked in. Rather, it's liable to occur in the subconscious - that classic lack of a greeting whenever I walk in, but with no hostility. And now, with the latest technology, there are some middle-class Christians of my generation who refuse to connect with me on Facebook. Also, on that same social website, if one grad posts a photo of himself or with his wife and family, he could collect as many as a hundred "Likes." But if I, a not-so-good-looking or insignificant person were to post a similar photo, we'll be lucky to reach into a double-figure number.

I guess here in the UK, the blue-collar and the white-collar canteens may both reside in the same building, but the wall separating them will never have a door in it.

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*The Guardian Online, 05/03/2021.

Eight Men, Four Women and a Baby

December 1972. Walking in the rain, long hair hanging wet as I saunter along the Strand, heading towards Charing Cross Station dressed in a thick overcoat, covering an open neck shirt and without a tie, I had just presented myself for admission into the Lyceum Ballroom, close to the intersection of the Strand, Waterloo Bridge and Aldwych. Two smartly dressed doormen, one slim with a snooty look about him, the other burly and having every resemblance of a wrestler, stood at the entrance.  The slim one stretched his leg across the open narrow doorway whilst the other told me straight to go, take a hike.

...I sauntered along the Strand... Stock photo

Those two had actually done me a favour. A very big favour. Having been dumped by a girlfriend some eight months previously, any attempt to find another female for a relationship had since then drawn a blank. But as I sauntered along, feeling humiliated, ashamed and defeated, it didn't take much of a resistance to accompany two young strangers who stopped me in the street, each about my age, into a nearby pub after inviting them to dry off in a much warmer, cosier atmosphere characteristic of any tavern.

As they got me to read from a Bible one of them had produced, I suddenly realised that the refusal of those two doormen at the Lyceum to admit me was the work of God, to allow me to encounter these two much friendlier guys and to receive the Gospel. By believing that this whole West End scenario was a work of God resulted in an inner change which would have a massive impact on the rest of my life!

From that fateful night, what have I gotten myself into? This - my heart-belief that this Jesus of Nazareth was presented by the Jews to Pontus Pilate, endured a sham trial, was crucified, buried, and three days later, rose physically from the dead, and has ascended to His Father in Heaven, and eternal life is given freely to everyone who believes. And salvation being a free gift, it can never be taken away - ever. Why not? Because I have received a new birth, a regeneration into a new creation to be forever adopted as a son of God. Moreover, to be "in Christ" means exactly that: To have God the Father see me in exactly the same way as He sees His own Son, and to add to that, to have the whole Trinity - Father, Son and Holy Spirit making their home within me, according to John 14:23.

Through faith, God has put me into a new society, the church. Since 1974, after a time in the "wilderness", I attended three different churches, one after the other. The first was St Jude's in Brixton, South London. Sadly, this Anglican church had long gone out of existence and its traditional building with a spire was demolished. That, to me, is sad. Because, looking back, St Jude's Anglican was looked upon as a "nursery church" - a place where I began to grasp the fundamentals of the faith, to be fed with the milk of the Word. But even back then, the milk must have been very good. By then I found myself contending with a couple of Jehovah's Witnesses, attempting to prove to them that the phrase "Son of God" means that Jesus himself is God, one of the "persons" of the Trinity. Just like with physical exercise, to stress out my faith strengthens rather than breaks it. It was also at that phase in life when I testified at work that Jesus Christ is the Son of God.

Because each visit to St Jude's involves a train and tube journey, an agreement was eventually made for me to attend a church closer to home. I was recommended Bracknell Baptist Church, and so in the Spring of 1975, I paid my first visit there. I have found the Rev Ben Davies' authoritarian method of ministry quite different from the gentle ministry of the vicar of St Jude's. I personally refer to Bracknell Baptist Church (as it was called then) as the "university church". I remained there until 1989, and I drifted a little before joining Ascot Baptist in 1990, and I have always felt fully at home in this "adult church" right up to the present. Today, it's Ascot Life Church, taken from John 10:10.

Throughout these years I got to know many people of all ages. This included eight men who all passed their 50th birthday without ever marrying, let alone raising a family.

Neil, my former school classmate, was taller than me, slim and quite handsome. His phlegmatic temperament made him one of the easiest chaps to get on with, but such personality also had a downside. He had no sense of adventure, instead, he spent all his life within his comfort zone at his parent's home. Remaining unmarried, he died at the age of just sixty whilst caring for his elderly parents.

The other seven guys are all Christians. One of them, a graduate, has Asperger's and has the IQ of any Mensa member. Another had never attended a university. The rest are all singletons who hold a degree. Of all seven, three have admitted from time to time of their sadness and sense of loss from not having a wife and family. The remainder seems to be content with their non-marital status and take each day as it comes.

Present-day Ascot Life Church, member since 1990.

These eight chaps have all passed their 50th birthday without ever putting a ring on the bride's finger. But throughout my Christian life, I also got to know four unmarried women, all of them older than me. Two attended Ascot Baptist whilst the other two attended Bracknell Baptist. Two of them are already with the Lord whilst the remaining two are still with us. The two who died included Barbara, of Ascot, who has spent her whole life as an active missionary before being admitted into a care home with dementia. The other, Rosemary, died, I believe, of a broken heart sometime during the 1980s. Then there was the youngest of the four, who also attended Bracknell, is only a few months older than me.

But it's Rosemary who gets my attention here. Poor Rosemary! Every week, during the midweek prayer meeting, we sat in a large circle in the back room. Then, as expected, Rosemary would spill out her sorrows aloud in prayer, begging God to give her a man who would pour out his love for her. Often these weekly, regular prayers led her to tears, as she sobs her pleading to the Lord within earshot of the rest of us.

Rosemary was short in height, plump with a round face topped with curly brown hair, and wore glasses. As one guy who was engaged to be married to a pretty young fiancee, once said to me,

Ugh! Who would want to marry her? She's so ugly!

And that Sunday evening in the late 1970s. This same chap stood up at the front, and behind the pulpit, delivered his testimony and finished with the crowning glory of his engagement and forthcoming marriage. Immediately, Rosemary stood up and quickly left the building in distress, midway through the service.

Rosemary may have stormed out of the church building in tears and distress, but if only she knew! I actually attended this chap's wedding, but afterwards, his friendship with me cooled, and with him married and with me remaining single, he distanced himself. But it was some years later when talk began to spread. Apparently, one of his daughters became ill enough to develop a disability, and later, his wife met another man at a house party and eventually divorced her husband to pair off with him. Indeed, amidst such events, Rosemary is now far happier in Heaven.

As for myself, having faith in Jesus Christ as Saviour has made a massive difference to my life. For example, watching my own beloved wife slowly deteriorate in health, changing from a beautiful slim woman with long cascading hair into someone a little plumper with hair loss due to chemotherapy, really, having faith in God does make a difference. All those horrific pains she experiences, the calls for an ambulance, those long waits in Accident & Emergency, the abundance of medicine taken by both of us, then watching her cry over the loss of our daughters, yet secure in my love for her as well as feeling secure in her love for me, our devotion for each other, that sacrificial love which meets her needs before my own comforts - all this from having faith in God.

Thus, I'm happy to say that arguments and disagreements are just as rare as a desert oasis, as we both strive to keep our marriage sweet and robust. Her own faith in God is inspiring and is the source of encouragement whenever I feel down and faithless. As such, as a couple who believes in Divine Creation as recorded in Genesis to be historical and not mythical, we see each other as one created in God's image, after His likeness.

And so there is the church, a beautiful church whose members are each created in the image of God, and each one to be seen in exactly the Father sees His own Son, as each one of us is in Christ. Indeed, as God sees none of us with any form of preference, whether ethnic, racial, Jew or non-Jew, working class, middle or aristocratic class, of which nationality or even man or woman, for we are all one in Christ Jesus! Therefore, let him who holds a doctorate embrace one who is uneducated and pushes a broom for a living, let him who lives in a palace hold no issues against the homeless lying there in the street, and even offer accommodation, as both are made in the image of God.

Therefore I sigh - and sigh deeply - when a particular video poster appears on Facebook. Just to get one thing straight - there is nothing wrong with the poster. It was very professionally done, demonstrating a skill most of us don't have, and with certainty, I don't have! It consists of a video of a couple, only that it's divided into 24 squares, each containing an alternating moving image of his wife and himself. And the climax of the video? An announcement that they are going to have a baby.

Good for them! I congratulate on God's kindness to them.

According to the latest, the video has collected a massive 475 "likes", including love hearts, and 238 comments, just about all sending their congratulations and best wishes. Both are astronomical! And it's here that I may be risking taking on the role of a sour gooseberry. The video itself is good and is worth congratulating. But the video and all the feedback, 713 altogether could well upset another Rosemary somewhere out there, as the video is set to Public.

And here I take an issue by asking: If the chap was uneducated and actually spent time in prison, or to put it another way, holds a felony record, and she a former striptease dancer, would he get so much feedback? Especially from other Christians? Or if he's a road sweeper and she a superstore shelf-stacker, would they still receive 475 "likes" in just a few days from fellow church members?

Therefore I get that horrible gut feeling that there is a connection between the average English Christian and this couple, especially him, who is middle-class and holds an honourable bachelor degree in theology and Bible studies as well as another bachelor degree in business management. And he's now in a role of church leadership. Therefore are they worthy of far greater honour than the less educated?

The issue lies not so much with the poster but more so with their followers who, despite the recognition that we are all one in Christ, instead, as typical Englishness goes, most Christians can't help but cling on to our national culture where class favouritism is ingrained in the genome.

Poor Rosemary. Even if she was alive now, she would still be unable to find a man at the Lyceum, and her weeping due to endless loneliness will continue.

That is because the former ballroom is now a theatre.

A Trip to the British Museum...

One unique feature about a Bank Holiday Monday is that it's usually very different from a normal Monday. As one good friend of mine said to me after a church service had finished, it's a refreshing diversity from those familiar feelings of "Monday Morning Blues" - when it seems easier for a log to lift itself off from the ground unaided than for a human to get up out of bed to that intrusive ringing of the alarm clock shattering a romantic dream or visions of a faraway paradisal location.

Indeed, I was not at all surprised when my young friend and Christian brother, Dr Andrew Milnthorpe, messaged me on Facebook a few days earlier whether we were free for this particular holiday Monday, a non-religious-based May Day, which always follows the first Sunday after the start of that particular Spring month. Indeed we were free that day, meaning we had no particular plans. Therefore I submitted a proposal for a visit to the British Museum, set in the Bloomsbury district of Central London. Surprisingly, this post-graduate seem to lack enthusiasm but agreed to accompany us anyway. Such a trip out seemed far better than being stuck alone indoors.

As train-travel goes, there was a closure on our line into London Waterloo station, a typical statutory holiday phenomenon, which meant changing platforms at Clapham Junction, itself featured in the Guinness Book of Records as being the UK's busiest station. The sheer impracticality of such a manoeuvre involving a wheelchair was a bit too much. Therefore we chose the fast Reading-Paddington Great Western mainline route followed by a single ride on the Underground. 

I love being on a fast train. According to my experience, the Eurostar London-Paris route remains unbeatable. But equally enjoyable is the 18-minute non-stop on one of Britain's principal routes. And Providence was on my side - just. Because on the opposite platform at Reading, another train was already standing, a stopping service to London. Had it been a five-coach train featuring first class, Andrew would have insisted on boarding it. But instead, it was a three-coach train without first class accommodation. Therefore we waited a little longer for the long-haul nine-coach train which was non-stop. This meant a difference in journey time between eighteen minutes and one of around 33 minutes - the 15-minute margin having the potential of playing havoc to Alex's back and her general comfort.

We eventually arrived at the museum. Although this was Alex's first visit, whether my friend has been before, I didn't get around to asking. But I have been before and I knew what I really wanted to see.

After Andrew had treated us to a sumptuous meal at a rather posh third-floor restaurant where waiters were dressed in a white shirt and a black bow-tie, we remained on the third floor to enter the Egyptian Afterlife gallery - mummies and their highly decorated coffins, all confined in glass cabinets. And because Andrew loves pushing Alex's wheelchair, the two stayed together, giving me a level of relief from having to constantly push. And suddenly I found myself alone in the crowd.

Indeed, it was the most crowded gallery in the whole museum. Whether the public has a fascination with morbidity or otherwise, I cannot be too sure. But Alex and Andrew couldn't be seen throughout the gallery. Also, I was a tad disappointed. I recall my last visit to this particular gallery, more than thirty-five years previously. Back then, I was sure that there were far more mummies on display, all confined in one room. This time there seem to be far fewer mummies and a heck of a lot more empty coffins, all standing upright like soldiers on parade.

Mummies at the British Museum - taken May 2019.

That visit so long ago coincided with one of my backpacking trips to Italy, this one completed in the Autumn of 1982. By holding a 21-day Italian Rail Pass, I was able to travel around the whole length of the country from Milano, where I had the pass validated, to as far south as Sicily. Maybe I did - and still have - a fascination with morbidity. I managed to include a visit to the Catacombs of St John, a network of tunnels deep underneath the city of Siracusa, which once housed hundreds of the dead buried in niches which were all carved into the tunnel walls. Back in 1982, I was able to stroll along at my own pace, alone, taking as much time as I need. At present, visiting is confined by escorted group tours which are carried out rather hurriedly, and therefore not given enough time to absorb the experience.

Another attraction is located underneath a church in the Sicilian capital city of Palermo. It is known as il Catacombe dei Cappuccini. On the same 1982 trip, I was entirely alone in this underground crypt one morning. I stood as the well-preserved mummies seem to take on a life on their own as many of the skulls stared down at me. There is a legend that one of the mummies fell out of its place and landed on one of the passing tourists as if to say Get out! The only sense of eeriness was from a loose flap swinging back and forth at the air vent. The constant Bap! Bap! Bap! of the hinged metal panel did alleviate what would have been an even eerier, death-like silence.

And while I'm at it, I might as well mention the Catacombs of Paris. Situated at the end of a very long underground tunnel, again I was alone as I visited off-season in 1985. Those were the glory-days when anyone can walk directly to the base of the Eifel Tower from the street or from the Jardin without the need to pass through security barriers and undergoing bag checks and airport-style security gates. Meanwhile, I've found that the catacombs of Paris were very much unlike that of Palermo. Rather, deep underneath the streets of Paris, there were just piles and piles of femurs interspersed with skulls. 

Do I have a sense of morbid fascination? Maybe so, but I think that this is borne out from decades of disillusionment with class-obsessed and celebrity-worshipping Englishness with much of this reflected in our churches, according to more than 45 years experience as a Christian believer. For example, the ongoing obsession with the disappearance of a doctor's daughter Madeleine McCann more than a decade ago, and still in the news to this day as police continue to search for her, boosted by extra public funding. Or the Leave-supporting graduate in our church who denies the historicity of Genesis yet held in reverential respect by the Elders and the congregation alike. And now also being surrounded by other Brexit-voting churchgoers who seem to be obsessed with optimistic views on Britain outside the EU and a longing for national sovereignty and yes, glory.

We seem to have forgotten that the same fate awaits every one of us. Its cruelty is reflected in the fact of being no respecter of persons or lowly animals alike - let alone social status, education, fame, or wealth. As with a poster submitted to Andrew's Facebook timeline showing the smug expression of Nigel Farage and his new Brexit Party, partly funded by a wealthy businessman and all, I felt my heart fell. Please give it a rest! But the worst scenario found in the Bible is to be called a fool by God himself.

It is found in Luke 12:13-21. It was taught by Jesus in a country within which, wealth was a sign of righteousness before God, based on Deuteronomy 28:1-14 and similar Scriptures. Here was a businessman and a successful one at that. If the text in Deuteronomy 28:1-14 had provided a yardstick for society to evaluate a man's righteousness by his wealth, then what Jesus here says must have been a shock to his audience! One truth stands out like a sore thumb. That is, he was concerned about his own future prosperity and he had no thought about others less well off, or those who were poor and hungry. He never realised that a far better way of living was within his powers by giving freely to the poor and needy. Instead, it was to eat, drink, and be merry, or as some modern translations put it - wine, women and song for you.

Thou fool! Tonight your soul shall be required of you. Supposing this guy had instead said to himself:

My fields have produced abundantly in the last few years and I have plenty to spare. This is what I ought to do: I will go out and use my abundance to feed the poor and help the needy. I will visit the home of the widow and ensure her welfare is okay. Furthermore, I shall bring gifts to children, especially those who are fatherless. So please, God, help me fulfil my destiny.

With such intentions, would God had called him a fool? I doubt it! Rather God would have blessed him with thirty, maybe forty more years of life, perhaps with fame and popularity as a bonus.

That is really living. The thing is, here in England, it can be difficult to actually live a life like that. Especially in churches where most are well educated and hold good jobs. Okay, there are the homeless. Walk through the streets of any town or city and sooner or later there is someone who has made his home on the sidewalk. I must confess, I tend to walk straight past. Maybe it's because in the past I had some bad experiences with them, such as being duped by putting on an act. My wife and I nearly fell for such a scam whilst staying in Chester. Or to donate a respectable sum of money, only to discover that his bandaged injury was a fake. Or to read that many of these beggars are actually quite well off and are not homeless. But try as I might, I cannot justify my own weakness, hence the need for a Saviour.

Whatever may be, those mummies and remains of dead people in the British Museum, under the streets of Paris, and in a Sicilian church crypt, all tell a powerful message. One day we all be as they are. With utterly no respect for our social standing, education, wealth, or whether we were popular or famous in society or not. 

Catacombe dei Cappuccini, Palermo. Visited 1982. 

Earlier I said that my mate Andrew Milnthorpe looked as he lacked enthusiasm in visiting the British Museum. It's very likely that he has been before or knows someone who has. While I was in the Egyptian Afterlife gallery, I could not see him nor my wife anywhere in the vicinity, which leads to the likelihood that he felt very uncomfortable looking at mummies or their coffins. And so these two were most likely in an adjoining gallery while I was examining the corpses. Rather they are all a reminder that whether he voted for Brexit and I voted to remain in the EU, neither counts for anything from the moment we step off this planet. Only our response to God's call will determine our eternal destiny.

Stop the World, I Want to Get Off.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Lesson from Mars.

I have a pretty good idea how famous author H. G. Wells must have felt about his environment he grew up in. Living at a posh area in Surrey, in the Woking area to be more precise, how he must have felt disillusioned over the might of the great British Empire which held sway throughout his Victorian era. Not that he was one of the subordinate indigenous nationals living under a subjugated realm of a faraway colony, but as one of a privileged Englishman whose residence was at the heart of the crème de la crème of imperial motherland. Day after day he was subjected to a vigorous social class system, where to give full honour to the King, or for that matter, the Queen, was paramount to earning your own salvation. On the other end of the scale, children of impoverished working class families were to be seen and not heard.

It was a country where rickets was common among working class children living in run down districts of many cities, due to its lousy climate, a lack of sunshine, smog created by black smoke from the chimneys of nearby industries - the "satanic mills" of Blake's poetry - the grime, the dirt, and the squalor, such a life of grim hardship. It was quite a contrast to the rich and the well-to-do living in the country or rural village. Having had enough to pay for a Doctor to call round whenever feeling unwell, they had no truck with the city commoner. Whilst child prostitution was something not uncommon among urban grime, in the countryside, village churches were always full on a typical Sunday. Such self-righteousness felt among them resulting in having harsh, judgemental opinions against the unruly commoner, along with a Pharisaical back-patting among themselves whilst cultivating a near-miraculous double notion of holding adoration for the Monarch and despising the poor at the same time.

Living in such an environment must have caused some level of resentment in H. G. Wells' heart. Because from his experiences he wrote his novel, War of the Worlds. So successful was his book, that after it was first serialised in 1897, it remains in print to this day. From it, various movies bearing the same title were made, and Hollywood Americanised the story. Also a musical version was created by Jeff Wayne in a form of a two-disc vinyl album, one which I have owned for several decades. With Richard Burton narrating as the journalist who was the first-hand witness and survivor of the alien invasion, it featured the Justin Hayward song Forever Autumn, which became one of Britain's top tunes.

The story is about an invasion of Martians into Britain, after years of examining human life on Earth from Mars. This was very much like a scientist examining bacteria thriving in a single drop of water. And that is a good comparison, because the Martian's brain was so huge by comparison with the human brain, that their minds and their intelligence were immeasurably superior. And these creatures were predominantly of brain, robbing their bear-sized bodies of agility and the vitality required for a healthy existence on our planet, especially one with a stronger gravitational force. All this was based essentially on Darwinism, with its concept that the larger the brain, the higher the intelligence. The biological cost to this was whilst the brain grew in size and intellectual power over the generations, there was in turn a gradual diminishing of strength in the wholly red body, which by then consisting of a wet-leather like skin, a partially visible pulsating bloodstream, flailing arms and legs and an enormous head bearing a face of two large, disc-like eyes and a lipless mouth which quivered and slavered, with drools of saliva hanging. Such a disgusting sight seemed to indicate entropy at work over the generations, contradicting Darwin's theory of upward evolutionary development for a puny physique with very limited athletic qualities.

But their technology was vastly superior than anything mankind can think of. Their tripod Fighting Machines with their heat ray and black smoke chemical weaponry were able to annihilate whole crowds of people in one swoop, demolish buildings, sink warships, and causing whole cities like London to be entirely deserted of people. And that was the point of the whole story.

The tale was all about the head of a mighty worldwide Empire falling on the mercy of a hostile alien power from which they had absolutely no means of defence. I believe that Wells would have secretly loved to have seen the fall of such an Empire. But the one consequence of such a hostile invasion was that every human being totally forgetful about his wealth, his social standing, his level of education, his profession, and the importance of Empire, to unite as one man for survival.

As the leaderless crowds fled the streets of London dominated by the tall tripods of the Martian Fighting Machines, there were aristocratic lords and ladies, politicians, doctors, businessmen, magistrates, bankers, craftsmen of all vocations, traders, chimney sweeps, layabouts, beggars, the elderly, along with housewives, housemaids, nurses, carers, students, boys and girls - children of wealthy families, children of road sweepers - all mixed within the crowds fleeing the city pell-mell, disorganised, terrified, to the coast for temporary exile to mainland Europe with a hope of being out of the Martian's reach. It was at the coast where a group of Martian tripods successfully sunk a warship which was engaged in full battle, bringing down a tripod and momentary offering a hope of victory for humankind. Instead, it was the beginning of the Massacre of all Mankind.

The journalist who narrated the story has had enough. Broken and without hope, he saunters back to London - enveloped in deep silence, passing deserted jewellers and grocery shops plundered and looted, to surrender himself to the Martians and to let them take his life. All of a sudden his attention was alerted to Primrose Hill, just north of Regents Park. There a cluster of tripods huddled together, one of them uttering one final gargled howl of despair, followed by a deafening silence. The journalist, his hopes suddenly rising, realised what had killed these unearthly creatures. Bacteria in the air. The humble bacteria attacking where no human was able to attack. Whilst the Empire lies in smithereens, it took our invisible, microscopic invaders to penetrate into these pitiful alien bodies to breed and contaminate their blood. It was a tremendous humiliation for the entire human race - with any sense of imperial pride, conquest, and military power shattered. The vast knowledge these Martians possessed had given them the ability to eliminate all bacteria from their home planet, resulting of the decline of their immune systems over the generations to the point of non-existence. So the moment they took their first breath of our air, they were doomed.

I find it amazing how the world of fiction can accommodate scientific facts so seriously. Maybe that what makes fiction so realistic to life that it can be given a level of credibility. It is very unfortunate though that far too many academics take the Bible as a book of fictional myths, and discredit any truth in it. One example is the reality of the Cross of Christ, his Burial, and after three days and three nights, his physical Resurrection, followed some weeks later by his ascension to the right hand of his Father's throne in heaven.

It is ironic, coming to think of it, that the Easter holidays are rapidly approaching, which is recognised by hardened atheists such as Richard Dawkins. Here in the UK the Easter break consist of four days off work - Good Friday, Saturday, Easter Sunday and Easter Bank Holiday Monday. As I see it, and perhaps as the majority of us British sees it, Easter is the gateway for the approaching Summer months, when thick woollies, heavy raincoats and galoshes are finally left in the wardrobe for the lighter apparel of tee-shirts, shorts, singlets, and the anticipated day trip to the beach. Sure enough, on Easter Sundays our traditional churches are prone to be packed, yet it is a shame that there is only one other day when churches tend to be full, and that is during the Christmas season.

And whilst churchmen and academics argue whether Easter should be regarded as a Christian or a pagan festival, various sects such as Jehovah's Witnesses regard the holiday as pagan and therefore condemned by Jehovah, as with Christmas and even individual birthdays themselves. I am also aware of various English families celebrating the Jewish Passover here in the UK, and that despite not only uncircumcised non-Jews are forbidden to eat the Passover in Holy Scripture, but the Bible insist that if one attempts to keep just one of the Laws of Moses, he is obliged to keep the whole Law, which would include annual blood sacrifices offered to a Levitical priest, himself a direct descendant of Aaron, in addition to the triple-tithe made to the Sanctuary, plus the annual waving of the first of the harvest crops to God at Pentecost, and the keeping of the Day of Atonement, along with the Feast of Tabernacles. Failing to keep the whole Law, even by stumbling on a minor issue, will result in eternal condemnation.

And so division exists between churchgoers and the non-churched, and among churchgoers themselves. Divisions, disagreements, bickering, fault-finding, judging one another, along with political and cultural issues - for example the political issue whether to leave or to remain in the EU, and the gloating and sneering of Brexit voters over those who had preferred to remain, as well as contending on which political party should be in power. On the cultural issue, its whether us strong bulldog Brits have lost our stoical self-reserve for a more emotional, sentimental, and mawkish attitude when facing a crisis, with interviewees shedding tears whilst in front of a television camera.

There is only one very specific need, not just in the UK but worldwide. That is to be under the shadow of the Cross, as well described in Acts 1:13-15. Just like the crowds fleeing the Martians in London, these people, about 120 in all, confined in a large upper room, were all united by a common bond. There were no disagreements among them, no gender divide, no class divide, no age divide, no educational divide, and most important of all - no theological divide. All were so bonded together that they were all as one man. Their conviction of sin, their sense of unworthiness in the presence of God. As Abraham once cried out, "I'm but dust and ashes." (Genesis 18:27). And as David declared to Saul after finding the King asleep in a cave, "I'm but a dead dog, a flea." (1 Samuel 24:14, 26:20). And Isaiah himself, when confronted by the very glory of God, cried out, "Woe is me, for I am undone, because I am a man of unclean lips, and I dwell among a people of unclean lips..." (Isaiah 6:5). Such strong men could be brought to such a state of awe when faced with the glory of God.

These 120 men and women in the upper chamber were in exactly the same state when confronted by the Glory of God, which was in the Cross of Jesus Christ, and confirmed by his Resurrection from the dead. Compared to God's glory, every dividing issue evaporates. Every issue which causes divisions of all kinds - melted into thin air at the glory of God's presence. Really, it is a wonderful state to be in!

The crowds fleeing London were bonded together by terror. Those in the upper chamber were bonded by awe. But both groups were bonded, with every divisive ethical, religious, and social issue evaporated. Perhaps this is the greatest need for our churches at present, my church included. The special presence of the glory of God which would bring us all to our knees in awe and to forever change our lives.

A Boy Among Doctors.

He was only twelve years old. But his remarkable intelligence has certainly impressed the doctors he was sitting among. The academics asked the lad many tough questions, and the boy managed to answer them all. But it wasn't just one-way asking. The lad also asked questions and received appropriate answers from those he was with. Furthermore, the youngster never became impatient, neither did he rebuke anyone in his presence for asking what he might have considered to be an idiotic or inappropriate question. Not that he or any of the doctors he was with would have wasted their time with foolish matters. Rather, the subject centred around the Law of Moses and other Scriptural issues found in what we would call the Old Testament today. And plenty about prophecy. Prophecy foretelling of the coming Messiah and his credentials, long awaited by the Jews, even in his day.

So impressed were the doctors with the conversation, that the whole discourse lasted three days. Although we are not told where he spent those nights in the absence of his parents, I can only assume that one of the elite took him into his own home until his desperate parents return to collect him.

The youngster was indeed remarkable. Even on his biological level. Whether he knew that every human being carries 46 chromosomes in the nucleus of every cell in his body, for a boy of twelve growing up in a very unscientific but highly religious environment, this is a matter of speculation. I wonder how much he did know in this particular stage in his life, that for a woman to conceive: Her ovum, which has only 23 chromosomes, must be fertilized by a male sperm which carries a further 23 chromosomes before a new life can begin. To qualify as a full human, he must have had all 46 chromosomes. If he didn't, then he wouldn't be truly human. The snag being that this child has no biological father. So whilst still an ovum inside his mother's fallopian tube, where did he get those other 23 chromosomes from? Since this has happened only once throughout the whole of human history, I guess science will never have an answer.

But there is more about his early childhood. From birth onward he never had to be disciplined for wrongdoing by either Mum or Dad. I guess he wasn't fussy with his food either, but as an infant he ate everything without ado whatever Mother spooned into his mouth. Perhaps the only time he let out a piercing scream was on the eighth day after birth. That was the day he had to undergo circumcision, a law given to his father Abraham centuries earlier - by the boy himself. As he grew up, he carried out his house duties without a fuss. Surely his parents must at times were left wondering: What kind of a child is this? Especially if his four younger male siblings, James, Judas, Joseph and Simon all growing up as normal boys who needed discipline, objected to household chores, and often refusing to eat. And all of them disliking their eldest brother for being such a perfect goody-two-shoes! And on the subject of Abraham, did he, as an adolescent accompanied by his parents, pay a visit of pilgrimage to his ancestor's tomb located in Hebron, an otherwise insignificant town far south from his home town of Nazareth? If he did, he would have looked at the very same fortress I looked at myself some two millennia afterwards, as Herod the Great successfully completed this iconic structure shortly before the boy was conceived.

And so there he is at the Temple, deep in conversation with the doctors. How much knowledge he had at that age one can only speculate. Was he already aware that his main mission on Earth was to suffer and die a criminal's death to atone for the sin of all mankind? This shortfall having entered the world through the transgression of Adam after giving in to Eve's seduction to eat the fruit of the tree God told them not to eat from. And so as one man transgresses, so sin has infected all mankind, separating each person from God, from each other, and even from himself, and ending in death. Yet this twelve year old at the Temple - was he already aware of the Three Trees of human history: The Tree of Life, the Tree of Knowledge, and the Tree of Calvary? And by dying whilst crucified will reconcile each man to God, with each other and with himself? Was the boy already aware of the result of his destiny? And his physical Resurrection after three days buried in the tomb? Furthermore, was he already aware that one day there will be no distinction among believers between Jew and non-Jew, no distinction between a free citizen and a slave, and even no distinction between male and female, as so well narrated by Paul in his letter? - (Galatians 3:26-29).

Did the lad at the Temple knew already what the result of his destiny would bring? Not only the giving of eternal life to all believers but reconciliation and unity with each other whilst still alive here on Earth? I think he already knew. He knew very well about this. Such a lad of tremendous intelligence and knowledge, yet in turn would not reject other people who don't match his model, neither would he stand offish, or look down on any of his friends and colleagues of his age range, even if such other boys may have had non-Jewish births, have different colour skin, or having come from different nations.

Perhaps you may disagree. After all, as an adult, he sounded quite abrupt to a Canaanite woman up north in Tyre when she made a simple request for him to heal her daughter (Matthew 15:21-28). He actually called her a dog. It would have been an extremely unusual scenario had it happened in our day. The Canaanite woman might well have protested with no small anger, using words such as:

How dare you! You arrogant swine! I'm not a dog, I am a woman! How dare you Jews insult us just because we aren't Jewish ourselves! It's about time you learnt a little more respect!

Instead, she accepted her foreign status in the eyes of the Jews and then proceeded to demonstrate that even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from its master's table. Out of his love for her, proceeded to heal her daughter and at the same time grant eternal life as an additional free gift to both of them. What a man this boy grew up to become!

Reconciliation of fallen man to God, with each other and with himself. I am convinced that this lad already knew of his destiny by the time he reached that age. And he was determined that, at the right time, he would set off to give himself to the Cross, and accomplish his mission of reconciliation to the level which the apostle later wrote - no more distinction between Jew and Greek, slave or free, male and female. An astonishing accomplishment!

How I wish I had the capability for time travel. Yes, I have travelled the world in my time but never had the capacity to travel back in time. Because I would have loved to have witnessed for myself this boy's wisdom and intelligence. In fact I would have very much desire to be at his presence on three primary stages of his life - shortly after his birth in Bethlehem, at the Temple in Jerusalem twelve years later, and finally, standing at the foot of the Cross. I can imagine myself being in the Temple at the presence of such a company, watching and listening to this lad as he speaks and ask questions. Then, probably before the third day is spent, I would cautiously approach him, fall on my knees and bury my face onto the ground just in front of him, hoping, just hoping, that he will reach over and gently stroke the back of my head with the palm of his hand.

Because I would explain to everyone around that from where I came from, much of the population remains alienated from God, from each other and from themselves. For example, this idea of having evolved by chance from primitive organisms over multiple millions of years is now accepted as scientific fact, therefore discrediting any historicity of Divine Creation. Even among Christians, especially among those who has received further education, there is this rather absurd notion of Theistic Evolution, a line of thinking which would still discredit and destroy the truth of the Gospel. After all, if sin entered the world through one man Adam, and death to all men result from this one man's sin, then if Adam and Eve had parents, grandparents, great-grandparents, all the way back hundreds, maybe thousands of generations before looking distinctly ape-like - and if all of them had died before Adam and Eve were ever born, sinned and died, then death did not come by one man's sin at all, and the Atonement becomes totally meaningless and ineffective. Then to make matters even more complicated, one would have to ask where in this long generational line is the point of demarcation between non-human and human species, and how far back was this before Adam's time? Yet, as I would tell them in the Temple courtyard, there will be many highly educated Christians who will adhere to such a peculiar notion. 

Then we are suddenly experiencing the rise of neo-nationalism, both in the UK and in the USA, as these nations will one day be called. The leader of the then most powerful nation in the world will be set upon building a 2,000 mile wall on the border with its neighbouring country Mexico, to keep those Mexican people out. These isolationist principles, together with the UK leaving the EU, raises the likelihood of international war breaking out further into the future, resulting in turning natural rivers into rivers of blood. Not to mention the on-going hatred between Western civilisation and Islamic terrorists, the latter bent on killing all non-Muslims as heretics. Then I will conclude on this matter that his mission to reconcile all men to each other seemed to have disastrously failed, with the addition that even within a single church, from time to time, there will be a degree of prejudice and distrust among its members, especially between social classes, along with an influx of false doctrine which will drive divisions even further.

Donald Trump - "I will build a wall at the Mexican border."

I will go on to explain to the boy and his accomplices the rising numbers of cases of mental illness, together with a rise of suicides. The feeling of a low self-esteem by comparison with the successes of others around, especially in the area of academic achievement, together with a feeling of inferior complex, and an awareness of personal failure, real or imagined, has become epidemic in my time and in my generation. If anything, the lad's future mission to reconcile the majority of mankind with God and with themselves has failed as well, and as I can see it, it's getting worse. I will also explain the direct link between negative, stress-induced emotions and physical illness, a large variety of diseases, with heart failure and cancer being the two biggest maladies induced by excess stress, worry, and lack of personal value, the latter caused by believing that we are all mere accidents of evolutionary chance. And also the same belief in evolutionary chance being a contributing factor, and probably a major one at that, for the collapse in marriage, the rise in divorce, the rise in adultery and unfaithfulness, sleeping around, and the consequential result in the rise of sex-induced diseases - all in a vain attempt to boost self-esteem and to be more in control.

Then, after I have finished, the lad would instruct me to return to my own time zone, and keep trusting in him, and know that because of him I have eternal life, and that through faith in him I am a son of God, adopted into his family, and I will never be lost again, because I'm in his hand, and I will never be plucked from his Father's hand, because he and his Father are one (John 10:29-30). He then explains to me that when the time set by his Father arrives, he will return to redeem every believer and put the whole world to rights when there will be no more tears, no more pain or sorrow. A perfect world which he alone can restore to its original Edenic beauty.