Wonderful Therapies During a Crisis.

As I sat at Starbucks this morning with a cappuccino, a croissant and The Daily Mail newspaper - all in a traditional Saturday morning ritual, and an Asian young man sitting at the table next to mine with a laptop, and just a few metres away, a group of thirty-something women laughing during a hearty conversation. I find it rather amazing that a coffee bar can bring the best out of people, despite that my beloved is on her way, by taxi, to the hospital to have a new catheter fitted, and my own spirit grieving over the fate of those stranded at Hamid Karzai Airport of Afghanistan's capital, Kabul.

While I could help but feel the oppressive air around me, caused by the endless news bulletins covering Afghanistan and the distress felt over those who are stranded there, together with my wife's poor health and her recent hospital visits, I have found one sliver of hope which has wonderful therapeutic benefits to both mind and soul alike: to recognise the sovereignty of God and to thank Him for the good things we have the freedom to enjoy.

Britain, being an island, is very different to landlocked Afghanistan. At least, despite our appalling climate, there is always the trip to the seaside. Whilst stuck in a traffic jam stretching several miles along the road, difficult - and expensive - parking facilities, or rather the lack of them, bored children aggravating their parents as the car in front refusing to budge forward a few inches, and the prospect of the blue sea lapping gently over a sandy beach being so alluring, many a family is prepared to take the risk of being stuck in traffic for several hours - even if Dad finds damp sand clinging between his toes so irritating.

If an Afghan family wishes to visit the coast, they must first cross into Pakistan - if they can do that with ease, as far as I'm aware, Pakistan doesn't support the Taliban. But even with a safe entry into the neighbouring country, it would be a long drive to get to the Gulf of Omar coastline, around 16 hours by car, covering 1,226 km, 757 miles, from the Afghan border at Chaman. And that if there is no traffic congestion.

 

According to Taliban custom, everything associated with entertainment is banned. Music is banned, along with owning and playing of all instruments, so is television, the VCR, ariel dishes, the cinema, theatre, the internet, watching or playing football or any other sport, kite-flying - a popular pastime among children - is also banned, as with having pictures, toys and models of all animals. Women are denied any education, and they must only leave their homes wearing a full-face burka and accompanied by a male chaperon related to her (eg, husband or brother.) Little wonder there are many trying to flee!

As I sat at the table, I was looking back on how I felt towards God. And I couldn't help feeling a degree of anger towards Him! Especially about my wife's poor health caused by a side-effect brought about by her daily medication. My mind was racing with one question after another, basically, Why? Why are we having such negative experiences while there are other Christian believers living life to the full? As I pondered on these thoughts, I began to realise how blessed we really are. Especially as I turned the pages of the newspaper and arrived at the page featuring Covid. Then I remembered.

At the start of the pandemic in March last year, I stood on a boardwalk near my home and cried out to God for us not to be affected by the virus. Seventeen months later my prayer remains apparently answered, even if my wife had it for a few days last summer before her immune system freed her from further infection. Her recovery was swift. Whether I was affected by the virus, I will never know. But this was something to thank God for, our safekeeping during the pandemic. So far. Even though we're both fully vaccinated, I refuse to sit on our laurels. We could still be struck down.

And I'm so thankful that we live in a land of democracy and freedom. And despite the lockdown, our freedoms remain enviable if compared with living under a Taliban regime. Indeed, during the first lockdown, someone may be fined for enjoying a flask of tea outdoors or taking a dog out for a walk in a large, deserted park. But at least nobody received floggings for such "offences". Add to that, the restrictions were temporary. Furthermore, we still enjoyed a greater level of liberty than Australia or New Zealand - thanks to our successful vaccination rollout.

Australia. I have backpacked through this wonderful country in 1997 for nearly six weeks. The trip included snorkelling at the Great Barrier Reef and hiking through the Blue Mountains National Park. Yet, I now thank the Lord I don't live there, despite wishing otherwise earlier. The lockdown restrictions imposed during the pandemic wasn't that far off from the restrictions imposed by a Taliban State. For example, facemasks were mandatory outdoors, with fines handed out to anyone out and about without one. And what I have heard, it took just one infected arrival to New Zealand from Sydney to shut down the whole of the country. Yet despite such draconian measures, the number of infections is growing, albeit slowly. As Sweden taught us, the virus is here to stay. The pathogen cannot be eliminated. It's here to stay. We just have to live with it.

I thank the Lord for the brilliance of both the British and European scientists for their rapid development of the AstraZeneca and the Pfizer vaccines. As such, we have regained much of our freedoms. As an anti-masker, I feel relief that here in the UK, those wretched "face nappies" are no longer mandatory in many places, but I still carry one when out and about should I be asked to wear it.

Further thoughts passed through my mind as I sat at that table. How is it that by living in the West, I have a better chance of hearing the Gospel and believing than one born in the Middle East, especially in a Muslim country? This, to me, is not only grossly unfair, but it's also practically insane. A baby born in a "Christian country" and with a church found in every town and plenty in larger cities, there is a good chance that the child will hear the Gospel. But where Islam dominates, if ever the Gospel is announced, the preacher is likely to face execution. The child growing up hearing the Gospel in an Islamic State is nigh impossible.

A Mosque in Afghanistan.

All this makes me wonder why God allows such a scenario - that your eternal destiny is determined by where you were born? That if you believe that the Bible says that faith in Jesus Christ is the only way to Heaven after death (John 14:6, Acts 4:12.) Then I think about one poor Afghan who was so terrified of the Taliban takeover of his beloved homeland, that he tried to escape by clutching at the wheels of a US Force plane as it was taking off from Hamid Karzai Airport - only for his remains to be discovered after landing at Kuwait. He was only nineteen years old, a very handsome young Muslim and a promising footballer. His fear of the Taliban ending his potential career in professional football and his liberties was too much for him, thus putting his own life at risk. A lost eternity? So much for being born in an Islamic State.

However, that does not deter me from grieving over my own countrymen. Although a third of our population claim to be Christian, the majority are either agnostic or atheist. Among the Christian claims, the greater majority are nominal. That is, they don't attend church regularly but only for Christenings, weddings, funerals and Christmas. As for the atheist's way of thinking, they tend to lump all religions as one anti-science nonsense, including Young-Earth Creationism. I fear that the takeover of a State by the Taliban and then imposing draconian restrictions will have a bad influence on Christianity in the atheist's eyes. After all, Muslims acknowledge Jesus Christ having once lived. Only that they believe he wasn't even crucified, let alone rising from the dead.

The average atheist, and perhaps many Christians too, are unlikely to be aware that the Christian faith and Islam does not lead to the same God, as the Vatican insist. Allah is not the triune God of Israel or of the Bible. The God we worship as Christians are in three Persons: Father, Son and Holy Spirit. By contrast, Allah is a single entity that has no son. Rather, Allah represents the moon god, and this becomes evident, as seen above every mosque. The symbol on the roof of each mosque is always shaped like the crescent moon, and the symbol is also found on some Islamic flags. These include Algeria, Comoros, Pakistan, Maldives, Tunisia, Malaysia, and a few others, but neither on Afghan nor the Taliban flags.

The founder of Islam was the prophet, Mohammed. His bones are with us, buried in the city of Medina in Saudi Arabia. The founder of the Christian faith is Jesus Christ. Mohammed died a natural death and did not atone for our sins. Jesus Christ was crucified as a criminal specifically to atone for our sins. He was then buried, as Mohammed was, but three days later, Jesus rose physically from the dead - the first person ever in human history to do so - whilst Mohammed remains in his grave to this day. Hence the difference between Christianity and Islam is so wide, it could be considered poles apart. Jesus Christ rose from the dead. No other religious founder had achieved that. 

Oh, the ugliness of the Crucifixion and the beauty of the Resurrection! I love to say that after His Resurrection, Jesus Christ has two bodies. He took one with Him to Heaven, leaving the other behind. Hence my thanksgiving for all the good things God has given us. Thinking of all my travel experiences - memories I treasure - and the lovely wife I now have...

Thank you, Lord.

Giving thanks to God for his goodness - even if everything looks to be so dire - is good therapy. Maybe this psychological therapy was well recognised by the apostle Paul. He wrote on many occasions to always give thanks to God throughout the New Testament. And that applies specifically to people like me. My natural temperament tends to be pessimistic and prone to fear of the unknown, anxiety, the feeling of uncertainty and depression. Recognising God for who He is and counting my blessings and acknowledging God's goodness are all good antidotes to these negative emotions.

The crescent moon topping every mosque. 

And church fellowship. One of the greatest benefits I missed during the pandemic was face-to-face contact with other Christians, the moral support gained when the chips are down, the greetings and hugs, and the one-to-one talk with another believer over coffee. And now we have the technology. Through Zoom, I find the weekday morning prayers a great benefit. And also through Facebook. However, with Facebook, there are several Christians who refuse to be "friends" with me. And some of these folk I knew personally as far back as the late seventies.

One, in particular, arrived at our church from University around 1978 or 79. By around 1981 or 1982, he then took on a mortgage for a property not far from where I lived, and he also took in two graduate lodgers whose incomes helped sustain his mortgage. When I played squash each week with one of his tenants, he took me to this grad's home for toast and coffee. We teased each other in good spirits. There was never any animosity between us. Instead, laughter abounded as well as some more serious discussions. As far as I'm aware and my memory allows, I had never intended to cause any offence.

Earlier in the week, I was browsing Facebook, and I came across his friendship seeking list. When I clicked onto his profile, I saw included in his photos one of the Grand Canyon. This inspired me to ask for his "friendship" having known him for over forty years. No response. I then checked his response on his profile before writing this blog. Not only was I rejected, but the Friend Request prompt was deleted. It was paramount to being blocked.

He is not alone. I have known several grads within my age margin who has taken the same attitude, all of them I've known for decades. I just don't understand why. I prefer to know. Like this, I can make appropriate amends if necessity calls for them.

These are very critical days. With my beloved, and myself too, under the constant eye of the NHS, along with the Taliban bringing all faith into disrepute, including and perhaps, especially the Christian faith, it's time for brotherly love, support and friendship to take a stand.

Panic On The Eve Of Glory.

Yep, another Saturday morning. But today, the air is electric with pulsating anticipation. As tomorrow's all-important clash between England and Italy is splattered on the first 13 pages of the Daily Mail, plus a further 16 pages in the middle of the 112-page newspaper devoted to the coming football match, together with the back page spread, this gives a total of 30 pages devoted to Wembley. It's quite a contrast to the five-page devotion to the Wimbledon tennis finals that are also set to take place this weekend. And under the shadow of Wembley, Wimbledon is almost forgotten, hiding towards the back of the newspaper.

Wembley Stadium.

And so I stand in line, waiting to be served at our local Starbucks, this particular cafe is annexed to the out-of-town Sainsbury's superstore. Wearing a mask, I watch as my patience begins to drain, as the queue refuse to move. At the counter, this young man was holding his mobile phone over the card-swiping terminal, but it fails to scan.

As the dialogue continues between that person and one of the females behind the counter, I began to sweat as the tension grows. Unfortunately, my patience is often in short supply and today was no exception. The man continues to swipe the terminal. Still no response. Maybe that's why I'm more of a technophobe than a technophile. The old, stone-age, out-of-fashion cash transaction had always been infallible, so reliable. And it kept the queues moving fast. 

Then came the "advancement" of writing cheques. At the superstore tills, I have found this method of payment so slow and frustrating! It's always the customer in front of me. She takes a chequebook out of her handbag and begins to write. She then scribbles, Thirty for pounds 65 pence, and then signs it. Then she keeps looking at it, tears it up and starts again on the next page, Thirty-four pounds 65 pence, and at last, hands it to the teller, who examines it thoroughly before stamping and then activates the till. Meanwhile, I stand there with my head ready to explode. But like any true Brit, I remain calm. And that's despite my 100% Italian bloodline - renowned for shouty protests and wild gesticulation!  

Then came the electronic payments, first, by typing in the bank account PIN code, then by swiping the bank card, and now by holding a smartphone to the terminal. All well and good. If all functions correctly, that would allow the queue to move even faster than even by cash payment. At least one does not rifle through a handful of coins to find that last penny.

But when the smartphone method of paying goes pear-shaped, then that was the nadir of frustration. There was an elderly couple in front of me whose calmness somewhat impressed me. However, after about ten minutes, the young man who held up the queue eventually collected his drink and made for the exit. How the transaction was settled, I can't say for sure, as I wasn't watching him all of the time he stood there. But quite likely, it was done by typing in the barcode, either on his phone, or at the terminal, or both. However, during the long wait, I had built up a sweat, the mask began to irritate, and so I peeled it off whilst still waiting in line.

Being maskless was, once again, the cause of pandemonium. This happened when the elderly couple, who were in front of me, had paid for their fare and were waiting at the collection point. Having then paid for my normal croissant and cappuccino as well, I moved on to join them. They were both masked. I wasn't, as I was due to sit at one of the in-house tables, as I always do.

Immediately, one of the servers behind the counter began to panic. Shouting at me to the point of hysteria to move away from the couple, she ordered me to "stand over there!" Meekly, I did so without making a fuss. Actually, not only were they both wearing masks, but I came no closer than a metre from the wife, who was nearer to me. Throughout the incident, they remained totally calm and did not say a word or even move away. After they had gone - they had bought a takeaway - I was next to collect my coffee. I saw the server's look of annoyance as I collected my cappuccino and made my way to the table.

I felt ill at ease as I tried to read the paper. I rose up and walked into the superstore and bought a pack of three blue biros (blue ink is nicer than black ink.) Then, having returned to the table, I wrote a sincere note of apology at the back of the receipt for upsetting her earlier on. I waited for a lull in the queue before handing the note to her. Almost immediately, she called out and with a wide smile, acknowledged and accepted my apologies. Ah! Peace was restored.

Oh, dear! What kind of a world are we living in? As I collected my coffee, she made sure she had kept a safe distance from where I was standing, despite the presence of the large Plexiglass shield separating us. There is something apocalyptic about the whole population going about wearing facemasks as if hit by a thermonuclear war that had permanently contaminated the entire globe's atmosphere. Indeed, I find this whole scenario rather unsettling, a reminiscence of those futuristic horror movies where everyone wore breathing apparatus to survive. Furthermore, I was taken by surprise by the panic my maskless face had caused. And that's not the first time either.

I haven't counted the times when a passerby had deliberately veered away when we passed each other on a public footpath. A few were even wearing masks - outdoors. Then not to forget last Summer when a Christian group met for an alfresco Bible study in warm weather. After leaving our house late due to the need to nurse my wife whilst she was in pain, I was the last to arrive and the Bible study was already underway. When I attempted to join in, those nearest to me (more than two metres away on both sides) - a near panic ensued, as if I was the disease, a source of potential danger.

Stock Photo.

I could never forget that incident, and it enabled me to realise the psychological damage the pandemic had caused. Instead of seeing each other as fellow human beings, brothers and sisters in Christ, each receiving a greeting of politeness and respect, and to evaluate the best for each other, instead, each one of us had turned into objects of fear, repulsive, to be kept away from. What the heck had happened to us? And the reason to wear masks? The official line is to protect the next person from breathing in your viral breath droplets. But I tend to believe that the real reason for wearing masks is fear. Fear of catching the virus.

I was intrigued when I read about and saw the pictures of the 60,000 who poured out of Wembley Stadium after England had defeated Denmark last week. The mask was a rare sight. In fact, It looked as if there were more fingers on my hands than football fans wearing masks. The exuberance over the win for England had eliminated all fear, or at least most of it, to enable these fans to go about in a crowded environment with hardly a mask in sight. And I would feel very disappointed if I were to turn on the TV to watch the Final tomorrow evening - only to see a crowd of 60,000 (out of the 90,000 when at full capacity) at Wembley, all wearing masks and all remaining quiet if England scores. Dream on! I'll eat my own head if England scores without as much as a whisper from the excited crowd! Yet, didn't our Government ask precisely that during last week's match against Denmark?

Alex, my wife, and I will be on holiday by the time of kick-off, God willing. Knowing my beloved, she detests football so much, that it's unlikely we will watch the match - or at least the first half. But who knows? Even as two football sceptics, I would still be keen to watch at least the second half of the most important football match for over half a century.

And who would I prefer to win? This, for me, can be a difficult question to answer. First of all, as already mentioned, I'm a full-blood Italian. But I have lived all my life here in England. Italy has won four World Cup tournaments (second after Brazil with five wins) and one European Cup (in 1968). In turn, England has won only one World Cup (in 1966) and no European championships. Then to add to this, all my friends are keen England supporters. If I were to cheer Italy, would I be looked down upon with disdain, or even down their noses if England wins? I know one or two who would, and they are Christians. And to support Italy would go against the national flow. Yet considering all that, I would still give Italy my preference due to family loyalty and being my original homeland.

 

The very fact that the England football team is symbolised by the three lions - indicating strength, courage and the ability to win the battle. I believe that the three lions are synonymous with the British Bulldog, that icon of courage, strength and emotional restraint, that ideal typification of the Englishman. My PhD friend Andrew had used this icon in his Facebook posts to equate the British Bulldog with Brexit. Although others have disagreed with him, nevertheless, I can see his point. According to one recent article that appeared in The Daily Mail, those who are more likely, by a narrow margin, to ditch the mask after Freedom Day are Brexiteers. Those more likely to hang on to their masks after July 19th are Remainers. Hence, my friend's perception of equating Brexiteers as having the Bulldog spirit.

Of course, some Brexiteers will prefer to keep their facemasks, and some Remainers will dump them. But I wouldn't mind betting that the majority of the jubilant England fans who poured out from Wembley last week had voted to leave the EU in 2016. But how wide or narrow the margin between Leave and Remain is, that would be anyone's guess, short of a thorough survey.

Yet, this is so, so ironic! Some who are Brexiteers have been accused of "lacking the Bulldog Spirit" by other Brexiteers for not wanting to ditch their masks after Freedom Day, but instead, to keep on exercising caution, including the wearing of facemasks in shops, public transport, and other enclosed spaces. 

On Facebook, I have used my travel experience to demonstrate that the Bulldog Spirit isn't tied exclusively to Brexiteers. As a Remainer, I have hiked the Grand Canyon twice in my life, in 1978 and again in 1995. Before hiking, I became aware of the risks of undertaking such a venture. Hikers have lost their lives on the trails, others were rescued by the ranger, still, others had suffered heatstroke, others still, hyponatremia - the lack of salts in the bloodstream caused by excess drinking of water without an adequate intake of salt. This brings severe pain due to muscle cramps that immobilise the hiker. Yet, I took on the challenge, aware of these risks, to fulfil my dreams and created a photo album full of stunning pictures. The opposite of taking risks is to be over-cautious, thus refusing to hike and missing out on a life experience that is treasured forever.

Given the opportunity, I would walk the Grand Canyon trails again tomorrow. And I voted to remain in the EU in 2016. Risk-taking is not exclusive to Brexiteers.

The Grand Canyon. Stock Photo.

All I can do is wish England well at the Finals. This is a time of joy, excitement, hope. A relief from the months of the pandemic lockdowns and more optimism for the future of the nation, families and individuals. But, instead of relying on human strength and self-confidence, wouldn't it be wiser to remember what King Solomon had written in Proverbs 21:31:

A man prepares his horse for battle, but the Lord gives the victory. 

Far better would it be to give all the glory to God and to credit Him for the victory. To acknowledge God and to submit to His ways through faith in the death of His Son Jesus Christ by crucifixion, His burial, and His physical Resurrection, then not only England, but the whole of the UK would be on a winner.

Balfour and a Disunited Trinity...

Ascot Life Church, which now meets at a restaurant sited at the famous Ascot Racecourse, has been my home church since 1990. Ascot Race Course has always been the venue for Royal Ascot, where Her Majesty has been attending the major horse racing event annually since the beginning of her reign, if I understand correctly. And so it has felt among our Elders to be a special privilege to be fortunate enough to hire the restaurant for nearly every Sunday of the year.

The A.L.C. Racecourse Restaurant is on the right, upper floor.

Known as Ascot Baptist Church before its move to the racecourse in April 2013, I have been a happy member since 1990, after leaving its equivalent in Bracknell some six months earlier in 1989. This was due to what I believed to have been too much emphasis on the purchase of land, followed by the major building project. This came with the push for double tithing and gift days dominating each Sunday and midweek meetings, until I realised that emphasis on Jesus Christ - his Death, Burial, and Resurrection, along with the glorious doctrine of the Holy Trinity, together with the wonderful truth of Eternal Security of the Believer, were all somewhat lost in the muddle of highly pragmatical sermons. These sermons often touching on daily handling of money, with the end result of feeling spiritually hungry in a midst of a mechanically efficient feeding station specifically geared for the married professional on the higher income scale.

The general trend of Bracknell church life throughout the latter half of the 1980's was something like this: Here is this week's sermon delivered, now go and apply it. This is the mechanical method of ministry which left something wanting. A good mate of mine, with whom I played squash every Tuesday evening back in the early eighties, and still comes over to visit us to this day, once asked our then senior pastor why he never touched on theoretical issues. The answer thrown back at my friend was, I'll preach what I want to preach! Little wonder that my bachelor mate eventually ended up living alone as a hermit, with former occasional visits to a French-speaking church in London, but otherwise staying away from all other churches.

It wasn't always like this. I recall joining what was then Bracknell Baptist Church as far back as 1975, in the days when it was more traditional in structure and mode of service. How could I ever forget the hard-back green Baptist hymnbook, given to each one of us at the door as we walked in, and a large percentage of senior citizens and families all singing with our heads bowed as we each held the book open at stomach level. That was before the introduction of the overhead projector, which threw the lyrics onto a wide screen fixed near the ceiling, allowing us at last to praise God with our heads held up high, as the Biblical saints and early Christians most likely did. However, whether it was the introduction of the overhead projector or not, a gradual change was underway throughout the next fifteen years, with visions of a much bigger building to accommodate the large numbers of incoming graduates and their families, began to dominate our weekly curriculum. 

But the early seventies meant a lot of memories for me. The reading of the Bible, taking in unfamiliar knowledge like a dry sponge soaking in water has made me realise how Israel was so prominent, especially in the Old Testament and the Gospels, with Jerusalem held as if special honour, that I so much wanted to visit the Holy Land for myself, and to discover the environment which gave rise for the existence of Israel as a sovereign nation, the writing of the Bible, and the formation of the first church in Jerusalem. So just a year after joining Bracknell Baptist Church, by the Summer of 1976, I flew out to Israel as a naive backpacker for want for more experience of travel outside Europe.*

But throughout all my church life, from 1975 to the present, little - if hardly any - interest was shown for the Jews and their relatively recent return to their homeland, as part fulfilment of Bible prophecy. However, by 1989 I was so hungry for want of spiritual infilling rather than constant talk of finance management, that my interest in attending church waned, and I began to stay at home instead. It was up to six months or more when a friend suggested a new start at Ascot. Indeed, it did feel like a new beginning, especially with Jesus rather than money and buildings being it's central theme.

So this brings us to the present. As with my former church, interest in Israel and its place in Biblical prophecy remains at low priority, even among our four Elders. However, in the past there has been several couples from our church in Ascot who were very keen on the subject, and have advocated their interest. One such couple had flown to Israel for permanent residency around 1995 or 1996. More recently, another family had left our church for a Jewish-based church elsewhere. And there might have been other pro-Jew believers who are no longer with us, including my grandmother-in-law. But as far as I'm aware, and I could be wrong here, there are at present, three of us at Ascot who have an interest in Middle East affairs and are supportive of the Jews in present relation to the Bible. They are John, David, and myself. With John, I don't know whether he ever visited the Holy Land or not, but David, according to what he had told me, did visit Israel at least on one occasion, I think, on a "fly-drive" trip - independent - but still rather different from my style of travel. His knowledge of Middle-East political history I have found very impressive, therefore not too surprised to learn that this rather reserved graduate is also a budding author.

Here, one would think that there would be a stronger sense of fellowship under the unity of a shared Biblical interest. Unfortunately, that is not the case. Instead there is no love lost between John and myself, due to major differences in both Biblical and cultural convictions. And that is a great shame. Because with his delight in keeping Old Testament Hebrew customs, I'm keen to find out if he, along with his wife, had ever visited the Holy Land for themselves, and if so, how much were they influenced by the experience. As for David, who looks to be enjoying a deep friendship with John, he tends to be rather withdrawn unless I approach to open a conversation. Indeed, between the three of us with a common interest, we are a disunited trinity.

And so as I walk between two to three hundred metres in the morning rain from my home to Starbucks, I was pondering what on earth to write in this week's blog, for except for the ridiculous minor sex scandals rocking our political ministers from properly governing our country, there seems to be nothing worthwhile to write about. Until I opened the Daily Mail to read the Saturday Essay. This week, it was an article written by journalist Dominic Sandbrook on the one-hundredth anniversary of the Balfour Declaration, a document signed by Balfour himself on 2nd November 1917 and submitted for approval to Lord Rothchild. In his essay, Sandbrook says quite a bit about Arthur Balfour, including his feminine side, along with how great a friendship with Britain does Israel enjoy as an ally. But much of the article is a criticism towards Balfour for opening the door for the influx of Jews entering Palestine, and forcing the original Arab inhabitants to move elsewhere. This, according to the journalist, has been the cause of many wars and unrest between the Jews and the Arabs, for the last hundred years, thanks to Balfour, now known as the Century of Blood.

Sandbrook sides with the Palestinians, whom he says were driven from their land and from their homes by the newly settled Jews who had just arrived to settle in Palestine, after centuries of peaceful Arab habitation. Yet by reading about the reporter's account of Lebanon, Syria, Jordan, and Egypt, all bordering Israel and all wanting to push this postage stamp-sized nation into the sea, I can't help get the impression here that there is something missing from his essay. Because all four of these Arab neighbours suffered defeat from Israel, an extremely unlikely scenario to say the least! Divine intervention?

I have read the whole article whilst sitting at a table at Starbucks. Some omissions came to mind as I read. Firstly, the foundation for the Declaration was first conceived by Zionist Chaim Weizmann, a Jewish scientist with his development of acetone through bacterial fermentation, which helped bring the Great War to Britain's favour after a hard struggle. Dismissing personal reward, he instead appealed to Conservative politician and former Prime Minister Arthur Balfour, to allow his fellow Jews to migrate into their former homeland, a request which inspired Balfour to draw up his Declaration in 1917. Oddly enough, this was omitted from Sandbrook's article.

Secondly, Sandbrook has not mentioned a single word about the descendants of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob receiving this area of land as a special gift of grace under a covenant God made to Abraham. Not a mention of these patriarchs appeared, neither was the Bible mentioned, which within a great deal was written about God's covenant with Israel and the land given specifically to them.

Thirdly, not a mention of the sentinel which stands at Hebron, which I had a wonderful privilege to visit and to step inside in 1976. This fortress, built and completed by Herod the Great around 10 BC, contains the cenotaphs of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, along with their wives. To me, I am convinced that this structure stands as a witness to God's covenant with Israel's founding fathers, whose remains lie within the Cave of Machpelah, deep underneath the floor of the fortress. What intrigues me about this structure is the timing of its construction. It is as if God already knew that his Messiah, soon to be born, would be rejected by his own people, the Jews, and as a result, they would be scattered across the globe for the better part of two millennia. The fortress, stands alone, having survived the invasion of the Roman army under General Titus in AD 70, when Jerusalem and its Temple was razed to the ground. It remains standing to this day, testifying of God's gift of this land to the Hebrews, nothing of which was mentioned by the Daily Mail journalist Dominic Sandbrook.

Fortress over the Cave of Machpelah, Hebron.

Then I can go on about the four Arab enemies of Israel. All four of these nations makes up a vast population in comparison to Israel's size and population numbers. Yet they failed to annihilate this tiny Jewish State. The 1967 Six Day War against Egypt brought further victory for Israel, who for the first time since 586 BC, the Jews were able once more to claim sovereignty over the Old City of Jerusalem. Surely this must be divine intervention against all odds. But instead, our reporter claims a good amount of luck in human effort and endeavour.

God's love and his commitment to Israel as a nation has tremendous implications for own salvation and our daily walk with God. This is one of the basis for Eternal Security of the Believer. If after all this time God had not forsaken Israel after all what she had done across four millennia, but instead, his covenant with Abraham is still standing, and will continue to stand for all eternity, we too can be reassured of our salvation being eternal.



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*A far more detailed experience of Israel 1976 can be read by clicking here.