The Dark Secrecy Behind The Mask.

During the early nineties, the cycle ride from my home town of Bracknell to Minehead in Somerset was split into two parts. The first was the 90-mile ride to Bath Spa, a Roman city famed for its ancient pool, the second was the 70-mile ride to Minehead from Bath Spa, after spending the night at a backpacker's hostel, a steep hill climb from the city centre. Thus, the two-day ride was 160 miles, approx 260 km, in total.

However, the climax of the whole ride was not merely the chalet assigned to me and three other flatmates, but the mass welcoming service at the Big Top, accommodating thousands of excited Christians of all ages at the opening ceremony of the annual Spring Harvest Bible Festival held here at the Butlin's holiday camp located on the north coast of England's southwest peninsula.

The Big Top, Exterior.

The thundering praise and worship, accompanied by a music band and dancing spotlights, say it all. Indeed, it was the climax of the two-day cycling journey. As such, I could help but feel a sense of uniqueness, as the car parks crowded with parked vehicles testify of the type of transport used to get here. As we all stood and sat next to each other shoulder to shoulder, who would ever think of social distancing, facemasks or sanitary stations placed at the tent's several entrances? On the contrary, hugging was quite the norm, and neither of us sharing the chalet would even consider one another as a "disease."

There was one year when I decided to spend a whole Sunday at Bath Spa. Here, I had the opportunity to visit two churches, both of them in the city centre. The first one I visited was Bath City Church which, at the time, met in a disused cinema building. It had roughly the same number of people as the Kerith Centre in Bracknell - several hundred. It was also a "live" church, that is, free from established tradition, and its morning service was charismatic. Bath City typified any large church gathering. 

The other venue I visited was Bath Baptist Church for the evening service. It was smaller in numbers, and also met in its own built-for-purpose facility, and it was more traditional in its service liturgy. Yet, due to having fewer people, I felt a stronger sense of intimacy present. Of the two venues, I felt more at home in this smaller gathering than I did at the first one.

The point I'm trying to get across is that for more than six decades of my life, I was able to walk into a church of my choice as freely as walking into a shop or superstore. After sixteen months of restrictions caused by the Coronavirus pandemic, to walk freely into a church service as a member of the public seem to be of a bygone age - something I now look upon with fondness.

My PhD friend Andrew tells me that at one of the churches he attended, advance booking is necessary to sit at a service. And that's not the only one. I saw on Facebook that advance booking was mandatory at another church elsewhere. This, I find rather shocking! To book a place at a service? A facility that should be open to the public, allowing free entry to anyone - even on the spur of the moment, or in need of spiritual edification, or just to give thanks to God, the church service should be open to all, regardless of numbers. After all, the Bible does say, 

Whoever will let him come. (Revelation 22:17.) 

Does this mean being turned away from the door had I just turned up without first booking? Suppose, earlier that week, a loved one fell ill and, not knowing any better, I arrive to attend a church service for spiritual support or intercessory prayer? Would I really be turned away similarly to a bouncer refusing entry into a nightclub?

It's wonderful news that our own church at Ascot will be meeting physically once again after 16 months of virtual services on the Internet. And, thank heavens! No advanced booking will be required. If the weather is suitable, we will likely meet outdoors within a small, enclosed field. According to their newsletter, by meeting outdoors, a facemask would not be a necessity. But if there's a threat of rain, or simply that it's too chilly, then we will meet at our usual venue - the Paddock Restaurant at Ascot Racecourse. However, although not mandatory, the wearing of masks will still be preferred, especially during the singing. And that, despite open windows blowing a chilly drought through the room.

Unlike my PhD friend, who has a lanyard around his neck, I would feel ill-at-ease if I don't wear a mask. Not because I'm afraid of becoming infected, but a feeling of concern about how others around me may feel if they saw me remaining maskless. It's the same ill-at-ease I have felt when shopping without the facecloth, even though it's no longer illegal to shop without a mask. Especially now that I'm fully vaccinated.

A bit like last Wednesday, when I took a short train ride to Reading Station. On the outward journey, there was no problem in not wearing a mask. But on the return journey, the carriage tannoy came to life with a request for all customers to wear a mask. I dug into my pocket. Sure, my cellphone was there, but as for the mask - it must have fallen out onto the street. The snag when that happens is that there is no characteristic clatter of a solid hitting the ground to attract my attention. The loss can remain unnoticed for hours. And so my feeling of uneasiness returns with the train announcement, and I silently pray that the conductor won't suddenly decide to inspect our tickets.

 

Spring Harvest Big Top, Interior.

As facemasks come and as facemasks go, how could I avoid reading about a scandal which erupted at an Anglican Church at Branksome, Dorset? Rev Charlie Boyle of All Saints Anglican in Poole, was accused of hugging a mourner at a funeral he was conducting. He also sang the hymn Thine Be the Glory aloud and with much emotion as he concluded an Easter service earlier this year. An anonymous person in the congregation complained to the church authorities. Now he is under threat of losing both his job and his home. And what was the complaint? Singing without a mask. And that was despite that he was also exempt from having to wear one.

Several things here. First, the complainant remains anonymous - even to the extent that the vicar himself doesn't know who he is. And if the complainant was so displeased, then why didn't he raise the issue with the Reverend himself? Why go to the Parish Bishop?

According to the national statistics, the Church of England is on a decline. However, the All Saints Anglican in Poole is a rare exception. Here, under Boyle's leadership, his church is thriving, especially among the younger set. He has a heart for God, and his keenness to sing the hymn aloud and without any reservation shows his delight in the Resurrection of Christ.

 

All that tells me a lot about the complainant. First, he remains anonymous to this day, second, he preferred to inform the Bishop rather than sort out the issues with the vicar himself. And thirdly, he refuses to come out and admit that he made the complaint. All that is enough to tell me that the complainant was consumed with jealousy of the vicar's success. And he's too cowardly to come out.

Nothing new here. Back in 1994, I was a volunteer at a Christian Conference Centre near Haifa in Northern Israel. One day, a young Arab friend who had a high level of respect for me approached - with a question of whether I was homosexual. When I asked him where he got that idea from, he was very apologetic and revealed that it was Trevor who informed the teenager that I was likely gay and had a fancy for David. Look at it this way. I had never shown an interest in bedding with another man. It wasn't only because this was unbiblical, but rather, I never had any interest in it. The teenager believed and sided with me.

Whether I was gay was true or not, Trevor had no right to inform the teenager - or anyone else - without approaching me about the circumstance. If my orientation and my supposed crush on David had bothered him, then why didn't he come to me first and sort the matter out? At least I could either verify or deny his accusation. Instead, he found it easier to spread it behind my back. And all that by a man several years older than I was.

Then it was my mistake to say to Trevor, in the privacy of his bedroom, that Joy was a lovely-looking volunteer. That was it. That's all I said. Joy wasn't around, instead, she was elsewhere, well out of earshot. There was no one else with us. Just Trevor and me, alone in his bedroom. The next day, I was called into the Centre manager's office. Here I was questioned by him whether my crush on Joy was true.

Why? Oh, why? The similarity between Trevor and the anonymous complainant in Dorset is, to me, quite astounding! I guess the human heart is so mysterious, so secretive, that no one but God can see into it. Being a volunteer in Israel very nearly brought me to the brink of apostasy. In fact, I did renounce the Christian faith whilst lying alone on a bunk-bed inside a medieval hostel within the walls of Jerusalem Old City. But God, seeing my distress, gently called me back to Himself, and then afterwards, opened the door of opportunity for world travel.

The anonymous complainant moaned about the vicar singing a hymn aloud without wearing a mask. Therefore, instead of shouting his own praise and thanksgiving to God, he makes an effort to get rid of him, to deprive him of a job and a home for both he and his wife. And it looks as if his foul efforts to have the Reverend sacked might be successful. And the cause of the complaint? Not wearing a mask.

I can clearly see a parallel between this unknown fellow and Trevor, who was successful in getting rid of me almost exactly 27 years earlier. True enough, back then, no one wore masks. But bring Trevor forward in time and here we see the most cautious, Covid-phobic individual I could ever imagine and the most ardent mask-wearer who could ever walk this earth. And still insisting that he's a devout Christian.

And so, I try to picture the scene in Israel in the midst of the pandemic. The hot sun is out, almost entirely overhead in the late, Middle East Spring. David and I are both working outside and neither of us is wearing a mask. Then Trevor, himself masked, arrives at the spot, looks directly at me and orders me (but not David) to put my mask on.

I then suggest to David, I suppose you better put your mask on too.

To which Trevor replies, Never mind about him. It's your duty to follow the procedure.

Later, the Director calls me to his office (yet again) and discusses with me the latest altercation I had with Trevor (which I didn't, instead, I actually obeyed him.) The manager then decides that with regret, and to keep the peace here at the Centre, I must leave and fly back to England. But because I have done nothing specifically wrong, I'm to be paid by ITAC* for a holiday in Jerusalem (or anywhere else in Israel, other than Haifa) and will not be escorted directly to the airport (the normal procedure for volunteers guilty of rule-breaking.)

All Saints Anglican, Branksome Park.

The next day, I lay on my bed in Jerusalem with my spirit crushed and with my emotions all over the place. Why was Trevor's prejudice aimed at me and not towards David? Could it be that his perception of me being gay (without proof) "pollute" the holiness of the land? Therefore, to "Rid Israel of all impurity" -  was I expendable?

Or could it be that, since David is a graduate and I had only a mediocre education, Trevor fawned all over him while I was, in his eyes, next to nothing, even someone to be despised?

That was the most likely scenario - had it been now instead of in 1994.

I hope so much that the Reverend Charles Boyle will keep his leadership post at his church he worked so hard to revive, and the discipline aimed correctly at the anonymous complainant, whoever he is. And may heaven help us all if the scandal in Poole is read by atheists. Such treachery will entrench them further into their unbelief in God, and give them more ground for them to sneer at all faiths.

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*ITAC: Israel Trust of Anglican Churches.

A Temptation Towards Atheism.

Since last week's blog post Enjoyment, Disaster, Reminiscences had attracted an unusually high number of hits within a single week, I thought of continuing on how travel experiences can have quite a profound effect on spiritual things. Like on Easter Monday two weeks ago, when my wife developed severe back pain while on a day trip to London with a close friend of mine, Andrew, and ending up with my wife and I spending an unscheduled night at a Travelodge hotel in the heart of Fulham, West London, after discharge from A&E at Chelsea & Westminster Hospital at 23:30 hours. That particular 24-hour time slot in my life had several lessons worth learning, including what I believe was God intervening at one of the most critical moments of the experience.

The hotel where we spent that night, Easter Monday 2018.

Which is distinct from God allowing various events to occur, such as phoning for an ambulance. This is something anyone can do, and has no bearing on the spiritual state of the caller. Such a call can be made by either a fully devoted "super-spiritual" Christian believer, a Muslim or Buddhist, or a determined atheist, and the ambulance will still arrive, in most cases, within ten to twenty minutes. But to step out onto a deserted city street in the dead of night and then having a sudden impulse to turn back into a hospital building to ask for help from an A&E receptionist - I believe that is God himself intervening. This was proved by the willing intervention of one staff member who wasn't even approached by us, and furthermore, was paid by the NHS to deal only with patient bookings into A&E, having successfully found a suitable nearby hotel on his mobile phone and with it, booked us in, along with the taxi lift to the hotel. Therefore it can be said that this young fellow with an Asian or Mediterranean background has saved us from spending the whole night wandering the streets of London in uncertain weather conditions and risking Alex's back pain flaring up again.

But of course, anyone with a sound mind would insist that the kindness offered by this hospital employee, like that of the earlier ambulance call, would have had no bearing on our spiritual condition. That is to say, he would have still stood up to intervene had I been a determined and committed atheist. And so true. And here's the irony: God's grace is not restricted to believers. As with God's universal love for all mankind, according to John 3:16, there is nothing standing in the way of him acting at the most crucial moment, even if the recipient had always harboured a deep hatred of God for most of his life.

However, there is something else rather unusual about that particular day trip. It was meant for Andrew to share the day with us. And here is the beauty about the whole experience: Andrew holds a PhD in Genetics, yet rather than dwell on his own academic status and looking down at us, instead he finds joy in accompanying us - a retired window cleaner and his wife - for a day trip. And this is not the first time either. Some eighteen months previously, Andrew accompanied us on a weekend away to a conference, also held in Central London, the subject of that conference centred on Divine Creation. This involved staying at the same hotel for the one night.

Little wonder that some three thousand years earlier, King David wrote Psalm 133 on how wonderful it is when brothers dwell together in unity. In his day he had a nationalistic bent - he was referring only to the people of Israel. Since then the Cross had removed this nationalistic in-group/out-group barrier, so well demonstrated by Paul's letter to a group of churches in what is now western Turkey (Galatians 3:28). The only condition for unity seems to be whether we are "in Christ". If so, then Andrew's presence is a good demonstration of the demolition of all academic, wealth and social class barriers and prejudice. Under the shadow of the Cross, a wonderful levelling occurs willingly before physical death is given the chance to accomplish this.

When it comes to travel, over and over again I have always emphasised my love for solo backpacking trips which includes bed-hunting at every chosen destination I arrive at. But this was not always the case. In the mid 1980's, it was Paul, Tim, Keith, Gareth and I who went on a cycling trip in Holland, Belgium and Germany, staying each night at different backpackers hostels. The main thing which bonded us together was our faith in Jesus Christ. That meant an architect, an accountant, a kitchen porter, a banker, and a window cleaner, all upheld support for each other as we pedalled away the miles, with the stronger cyclist ensuring that the weaker rider wasn't left trailing behind. This together with a safe level of teasing, joking around, enjoying a laugh as well as partaking in more serious conversation. It is this unity, first our common faith in Jesus Christ, and secondly our shared love of long distance cycling which allowed the spirit of fellowship to flourish, helping to eliminate any social class prejudice, academic preference or national superiority. In the case of the third, here we have a full-blooded Italian riding, eating and sleeping alongside two devoted Englishmen in this group of five, yet still felt equally accepted.

When it comes to hosteling rather than hotel room hire, as mentioned last week, most of these were visited on my own. However, it is usually at the member's kitchen where conversations starts and friendship develops. Such was the case when I stayed at this HI hostel located at the heart of San Diego in 1995 whilst backpacking from New York to San Francisco. It was at a single floor of a disused U.S. Army building which was shared with the YMCA. Each dormitory had just two beds, one above the other, and I shared the room with an Australian builder who had completed his volunteering contract before backpacking the rest of the USA prior to returning home. It was he who inspired me to visit Australia for myself, which I did in 1997.  One evening, whilst preparing a meal in the member's kitchen, two young men entered and then joined me whilst cooking their own food.

It didn't take me long to discover that they were actually brothers from Scotland, who had also befriended the Aussie. After dinner, the four of us played table football at the adjoining lounge. This allowed me to laugh at my own inability to flick the ball into the goal with split-second agility, therefore making the whole team of miniature plastic men look rather ridiculous! After this, the four of us went out together "to paint the town red" so to speak, laughing, joking and making raucous noise as we walked along the promenade, whilst the waves of the Pacific Ocean lapped gently on the harbour coastline. Despite of this, we still remained at the right side of the law.

This sort of social interaction and behaviour is indeed out of my character, who normally takes travel more seriously. But the experience was therapeutic. Therapy I was in bad need of. That was why I was travelling around America in the first place. To help heal some very bad emotional wounds. The issue is all about acceptance. To feel part of a group, to feel a sense of belonging. My fellow travellers in San Diego helped me to feel accepted. I know that one was in the building trade, most likely a bricklayer. But I cannot remember the vocation of the other two. Maybe because I didn't get around to asking. Or if I did ask, their answer failed to stick.

The local church should be the one place in the land where I should feel loved and accepted, regardless of background or status. At least I can say that in my home church in Ascot, I feel loved and accepted by the majority of regulars who attend. I'm quite popular with the students. A couple of them came up to me for pre-nuptial advice and guidance shortly before they married. I felt privileged. An evening at a pub with a brother or at Starbucks with one of the Elders is always a tonic. I recall an evening spent with one of the graduates, along with one or two others at different times and venues. These are times to give as well as to receive. According to experience, nothing can be more uplifting than to encourage someone and actually watch him feel uplifted, edified, encouraged, strengthened. In turn, probably the best tonic for feeling down is a good chat at a pub or coffee bar.  So in what way was the 1995 trip to the USA such a tonic and so therapeutic?

It was during my time in 1994, which was spent as a volunteer at Stella Carmel Christian Conference Centre at Isfiya, located at the northern region of Israel. This small village on the summit of Mt. Carmel offered spectacular views of the Valley of Jezreel, which lies at the southern flank of the Galilee area. Often in the evenings I have sauntered alone to the overlook, a clearing among the bushes and trees which covers the slope of the hill, to gaze at the stunning sight and meditate over the issues of the day. 

And the issues of the day was not the work. Generally, I enjoyed the work, whether domestic or maintenance, usually on alternate days. Rather it was the fellowship, or lack of it, between other Christian volunteers and myself. Thanks to one female volunteer, Jo by name, who was a fervent feminist and aspiring career woman, with natural leadership talents. At least all the other females follow her around, as she had the knack to influence them.

The work for the volunteer was both domestic, which involves changing bed linen, cleaning bathroom sinks and toilets, and so on; and maintenance - often involving shifting heavy rocks, garden work, painting and decorating, handling heavy equipment and such like. One morning, during one of our weekly meetings with management, I made a terrible, terrible mistake of suggesting that the heavier maintenance work should be for the men, us male volunteers, while the women may excel in domestic duties. It might have been because the Director saw my point and took it as valid, that I immediately became the pariah by Jo, who influenced all the other females, to become the most hated in the community. Not that I was that much liked before. By contrast, there among us was another male volunteer, Scott from Aberdeen; tall, slim, handsome, and a graduate. Although introverted, he was adored by all the women mainly because of his threefold attribute of graduation, good looks, and his introvertism. Having a lack of academic and professional status was to be my disadvantage. I became the target for aggressive female bullying, including being called a backward Neanderthal, along with all Italians, who, according to Jo, their anti-feminist stance making them a nation of backward Neanderthals. 

Eventually, after two months, the Director told me to leave. I was transported to Haifa Bus Station and left there to fend for myself. This is totally unlike that of an offender, who is driven straight to the airport for deportation. But there was one bright spot within the turmoil. That was of a young Arab neighbour, a nearby resident who drops in at Stella Carmel every evening after work had finished for the day. It was on this occasion when this Christian teenager sought me out from among all the volunteers and asked me to pray for him as he went through personal difficulties, and we both sat down to spend time praying together.

This meant a lot to me! He saw me as a fatherly figure or older brother, someone who can give him spiritual guidance. Strange as I see it, a nugget of gold in a sea of mud. He was a contrast, a wonderful contrast, to all the British volunteers making up the community I was part of. 

Such an experience is such a shame. Here is one group I thought was where the love of Christ would shine. A place of hope, a community where love would atone for many faults and cover a multitude of sins. A place I should have found spiritual encouragement, edification, courage and strength. Instead it was a disaster. A disaster because of nationalism, culture, the emphasis on education and personal status, and not on faith in Christ. From such an environment I could have slipped into atheism, but I didn't, because of the eternal power of God. If there was proof of the veracity of Eternal Security of the Believer, that was it. I had absolutely no reason to love the church, to identify myself with it. But I still love my brothers and sisters in Christ to this day, thanks to the righteousness of Christ imputed into me.

While this blog is written, on the BBC Radio 4 Archive, the full version of Enoch Powell's "Rivers of Blood" speech, delivered in Birmingham, is being aired to mark its fiftieth anniversary. The speech was about the horrors of immigration, the arrival of many black Jamaicans, the "Windrush generation", named after the ship which transported the first of these immigrants across the Atlantic some twenty years before in the early 1950's, under the British Government's invitation. Powell's speech was highly rhetoric and racist, inspiring hate, especially among the white working class. Dockers in particular went on marches in support of this MP's speech, which insisted that all immigration must stop and all black immigrants to be paid to leave the UK to return to their home country. Up to 200,000* letters were sent to him afterwards, mainly in support of his speech. Hatred among the English towards blacks continued for decades to come, and I can long remember the activities of the National Front against everyone who was non-white.

Enoch Powell, 1960's Conservative MP.

What a vivid contrast all that is when compared with the wonderful help we received from the Asian receptionist when we found ourselves stranded in London during the middle of the night. This is something many Christians, who ought to know better, should learn.

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* The quote of 200,000 mails received by Enoch Powell after his 1968 Rivers of Blood speech was taken from the Daily Mail National newspaper, Saturday April 14, 2018. However, this seems to be inconsistent with the figure given by Wikipedia, which is 120,000. It is therefore left to the reader to decide which figure is closer to the truth, and whether the Right-leaning Daily Mail has exaggerated the numbers to dramatise the story.