A Wedding and a Gay Churchgoer.

As many of my readers may be aware, the front page of today's edition of The Daily Mail national newspaper carries a photo of the bride and groom leaving the church in Windsor, and exchanging a kiss whilst their arms are entwined. Yet if I were to see them walking along the street or busy at a shopping mall, I would not even give them a second glance, as they would appear as total strangers. But not to the rest of the nation, it seems like, who would have recognised the bride as Princess Eugenie, the daughter of Prince Andrew, the second son of the Queen (after Prince Charles and Princess Anne), and therefore Her Majesty's granddaughter.

She had just tied the knot with, as it looks to me, some unknown fellow, Jack Brooksbank by name. An aristocrat of some sort, as I tried to scour both the newspaper and the Internet on what he does for a living. All I got was that he is an ambassador for several brands of wine. Whatever that's supposed to mean, one thing for sure, he never got his hands dirty fixing a broken pipe or stood in a muddy trench in search for some frayed cables.

Jack Brooksbank with Princess Eugenie.

Yet the Daily Mail devotes its first seventeen pages to the wedding, plus a further twelve centre pages as a souvenir pullout, making a grand total of 29 pages altogether, which is a typical reflection of our nation's obsession with celebrity. Heavens! Why didn't they make it into a tidy number of thirty pages? But when it comes to crowd attendance, there is quite a significant difference between this Royal wedding and that of Prince Harry and Meghan at the same venue a few months earlier. Harry's wedding had attracted a crowd of 100,000 spectators, whilst this one pulled in only 3,000 onlookers, according to the newspaper. The small fact that Eugenie's nuptials took place on a Friday, and therefore there were many employers unwilling to give their workers a day off, this might well have had a hand in the vast difference of crowd numbers, as Harry was wise enough to marry Meghan on a Saturday.

Am I one of a majority who really couldn't give a damn? A minor Royal had just got hitched, and I was far more interested in the gym workout, followed by a relaxing sauna afterwards. And while I was preparing to row for a full hour on the Concept 2 flywheel machine, three thousand devoted followers lined the street, with just one overnight camper. Personally, I wish them good luck and God's blessing. Although I do wish them well, that's not the point here. Rather, if there is such a country which practically deifies Royalty, it has to be Great Britain. And the English in particular.

It's nothing new of course. Far from it. The Pyramids of ancient Egypt, for example, remains a lasting testimony of the Pharaoh's deification by his loyal subjects. Sometime later the Romans were at it. I believe it was Emperor Augustus who initiated the Pax Romana, which allowed its citizens to live in peace whilst the Empire expanded. Since the Pax Romana is an abstract quality rather than an entity, the idea of worshipping the Emperor as divine suited them well. It was not long before Emperor-worship became compulsory on the penalty of death, which brought problems to the early Christian who insisted that the risen Jesus of Nazareth was God, not the ruling Emperor.

These Roman emperors certainly did not live saintly lives. They tended to murder their own family members in order to ward off any threat of rivalry and to secure their own power. The majority of these ancient rulers also had handsome boys in their bedrooms, what we at present would label as pederasty and paedophilia, such scandals in Her Majesty's Government would shake the very foundations of Parliament. It does look to me that generation after generation of governance under a Christian Constitution has made the churches effective in its role as Salt of the Earth.

Poor John the Baptist! He wasn't so lucky in stemming evil. During the days of his ministry, King Herod successfully wooed his brother's wife while her husband was still alive. And so he rebuked the couple in public, calling their marriage adulterous and a sham. Indeed, after John's arrest and imprisonment, Herod had taken a liking to his captive and even called him up to his palace to hear more on what he had to say, according to Mark 6:20. But John's rebuke failed to bring repentance. He never sent his wife Herodias back to his brother. Instead, he allowed her hatred of the prophet to fester and eventually used her beautiful daughter to lull the king to have John executed.

However, Herod's sin looks to be incredibly mild in comparison to those of the reigning emperors in Rome. Really, Herod's sin wasn't unlike our own perception of marriage, divorce and re-marriage taking place all around us at present. Here in the UK, even under a Christian Constitution, this sort of thing takes place all the time, despite what both Jesus himself and apostle Paul had taught, that he who marries a divorcee commits adultery (Luke 16:18, Romans 7:1-3).

1-hour workout = 6.4 miles, 520 calories and no wedding bore!

Which makes Prince Harry's wedding to Meghan a very awkward issue indeed, since Meghan was a divorcee herself. Therefore, according to John, Jesus and Paul, the marriage between Harry and Meghan stand as an adulterous relationship, yet as many as 100,000 stood to watch the nuptials and giving their blessing, as with the TV and newspaper media.

Then came the news from Northern Ireland that a Christian baker has won a legal victory against two gay men who wanted a cake decorated with a motto advocating same-sex marriage. The two men ordered the cake and were ready to pay for it, but the baker refused to make it, based on his own Christian convictions. So the two men took the baker to Court, but lost the case, mainly due to the fact that same-sex marriage is still illegal in Northern Ireland, unlike the rest of the UK.

Organisations such as Christian Concern has endorsed the baker's legal victory with praise. As with John the Baptist's rebuke to Herod, their loss of the Court case did not bring these two gay men to repentance, but most likely had left them shimmering in bitterness and resentment. And Christian Concern will be celebrating their tenth birthday at the Emmanuel Centre next weekend - the same venue in London where Creation Ministries International held their Conference a month ago.

We were invited by my PhD friend Andrew to go with him to the celebration. At first, I declined the invitation. But when Andrew revealed to me that a connection was possible between declining morals and the rise of Darwinism, a chord was struck within and I had to re-think. I admit that I wasn't keen to push my wife's wheelchair into London all over again after such a short time, with all the transportation problems such a contraption would bring. But I eventually agreed to attend if Andrew was happy for me to go on my own with him. So off we shall go.

But what has brought me to say Not this time initially? Much to do with moral reformation but without the re-birth of the spirit, as the case of Herod and the two gay men shows. Here I try to use empathy here, to try and put myself in their shoes:-

During the Court case, it is repeated over and over again that the issue of the cake is against Christian principles. The Judge sides with the baker and I lose the case. What would I then be thinking? How would I feel? Certainly not warm towards the churches! And as for the faith itself, any credibility it might have had is taken away by the punitive attitude it has. And it's so grossly unfair. It's all very well for a straight preacher, happily married with two children, to stand in front of the pulpit and declare how wicked and evil same-sex relationships are. But he wasn't born that way. And to say that homosexuality is a mere mental condition borne out of choice...well, that's an insult in itself. Why is it then that a vast majority of gays would have preferred to be heterosexual, marry and have children? And why choose to bear the rejection and hostility from mainstream society? Furthermore, why is there a frightening level of suicides among us gays, way above those committed by straights? And that despite that gays consist only 4% of the population?

And my view of God? A punitive monster in the sky who is obsessed with hellfire, and the certainty that all gays will go there. The churches are no better. Nothing more than a house of constant condemnation. And here is the crunch. I can't help being the way I am. For example, I could walk along a street or at a shopping mall. I could be in the office or even a factory shop floor. Or, heaven forbid, I could even be in church. I catch sight of a decent, handsome man. I quickly look away but it's already too late. My heart beats rapidly, nerves cause my muscles to tighten, libido sets in. The trouble is, there is also a higher level of embarrassment if ever he would find out how I felt, or anyone else in the room. Choice? Rather, I'm bound for eternal condemnation, in chains from which I cannot break free. After all, with such a divine monster in the sky - if he exists - how could I possibly turn to him for mercy?

And so that's how the churches and society as a whole would perceive a gay person. I think there is an element of truth in reports written by psychiatrists and psychologists that homosexuals have the least happiness ratio in any society. Not so much because the sexual experience can be so unpleasant, but more likely the feeling of fear of rejection which can include verbal and physical harm.

Although there are churches and para-church organisations such as Christian Concern which can be quite heavy when they come to LGTB issues, it does look to me that they are far from true moral reformation. I can be wrong of course. They testify of God working through them. However, real repentance without regret is a grace which can only come through conversion and regeneration by faith in Jesus, the crucified, buried and Resurrected Christ. Conversion to Jesus Christ as Saviour is the only answer.

And this especially when considering these other issues: Have you ever looked at another person and harboured a secret lust? Then you are an adulterer. Do you have a superior attitude towards another person of inferior status? Are you snobbish? Or hold racist views? Then you are a murderer. Have you ever manipulated your tax return with dishonest intent? Then you are a thief. Have you ever rebelled against your parents? Or shown hostility towards them? Then you have dishonoured them. And in frustration, you shout, Oh for Christ's sake!? Or Jesus Christ Almighty!? Then you are a blasphemer. And even told a white lie? Then you are deceitful. The fact is, where sexuality is concerned, we are all deviants. as the Scriptures says:

There is no one who is righteous, no, not even one.

Psalm 14:1-3, 53:1-3, also Romans 3:10-12.

The trouble with me is, I am no better than any other sinner. I'm just as bad. Therefore to attend a Christian organisation dealing with moral reform but with the lacking emphasis of a faith in Christ, then there are elements of hypocrisy. If ever there was one in deep need of moral reformation, then it is me, especially in my thoughts and motives. Without Christ, I'm lost and without hope. Yet by God's grace, I shall be going. Not to shout from the rooftops that homosexuality and same-sex marriage is wrong, but to learn further where all these worsening moral standards have a connection with Charles Darwin's evolutionary theory.

Apprentice Octopus!

It was our honeymoon in the Autumn of 1999. As my bride Alex was sunbathing on the little stretch of beach at St. Paul's Bay at the coastal resort of Lindos, on the Greek island of Rhodes, I swam with casual ease among rocks protruding from the surface of the warm Mediterranean waters. Just below the surface lurked a live octopus. Whether it was looking out for its next meal or whether it was irritated by my constant presence as I gazed in wonder, I cannot be sure. However, if the creature is as intelligent as marine biologists make out to be, then it's more likely that its irritability was caused by my intrusion into its territory rather than the other way round.

St Paul's Bay, Rhodes.

Watching documentaries about life beneath the waves on television can be quite edifying and a good source of knowledge. But observing by looking at a TV screen would never hold a candle to actually being in the water itself to observe such living creatures, although to be thoroughly honest, when it comes to the Great White Shark, I rather be looking at it on television than finding myself staring face-to-face with one in the open ocean! Then again, today's newspaper is carrying an article about a young British tourist in his twenties, who was fatally bitten by a sea snake off the northern coast of Australia. This particular species of sea snake has one of the highest venom potentials of all snakes, whether marine or land.

There is always an element of risk when sea bathing, whether it's a swim off the pebbly beach at Brighton or diving or snorkelling at the Great Barrier Reef. With Brighton, there is always the risk of rip-tides, where a strong current can take a swimmer out to sea, even a strong swimmer. But at the Great Barrier Reef, one would never know what organism may suddenly strike after its territory so rudely intruded. What I have seen, the sharp teeth of a Moray Eel does look as if it can sever a human arm if it snaps shut at a passing diver. Yet, after being warned by close friends of the dangers of encountering wildlife in warm climes or tropical regions, I returned home safely from both hiking through the desert of the Grand Canyon and from snorkelling at the Great Barrier Reef and at the Red Sea alike.

And from any threats from the octopus. No doubt, far more interested in finding a stray crab than in the presence of an intruding human, biologists have credited the Octopus with a very high level of intelligence, according to TV documentaries. High intelligence? Maybe if I were to keep an octopus in a tank nearby, perhaps it will sort through these high-tech problems occurring on my laptop! However, I do find these marine creatures fascinating. But high intelligence? What I have seen throughout life, I can't see any higher intelligence in the octopus than within the rest of the animal kingdom. After all, is the spider with its intricate web-building instinct less intelligent than the octopus?

When scientists say that a particular species of octopus have higher intelligence, they tend to refer to its evolutionary progress to inherit the ability to change its skin colour instantly to blend into its surroundings in perfect camouflage. This ability, astonishing as it is in my opinion, looks to be from involuntary instinct rather than by conscious calculation. In other words, the octopus does not consciously change its skin colour to suit the oft-changing sea floor. As the creature moves along, its colour changes without any effort by the organism, as if the original work of an intelligent Designer.

According to my own observations, the octopus, like most other living creatures, has to survive in a fallen world where predation holds dominance. Therefore it's no surprise that the Designer had equipped the octopus with a threefold ability for survival - to prey on other lifeforms for sustenance, to keep itself from being prey to another carnivorous creature, and the ability to reproduce. And so, if camouflage is one method needed for its survival, shouldn't this be a testimony for a Designer rather than by evolution by chance and mere natural selection?

And so the octopus became the centre of attention during the opening episode of the BBC television show, The Apprentice, a twelve-part series about entrepreneur Alan Sugar in his search for a business partner to whom he will invest 250,000 pounds towards the business owned by the winning candidate. Sixteen candidates were chosen from thousands of applicants, as a result of tough tests and interviews, including an assessment of each by a Psychiatrist, before the finalists were selected. Therefore all of them, eight men and eight women, are the cream of business acumen, the very backbone of England. 

Their first task involved a flight to Malta to purchase nine items which reflected the island's culture. One of the items included on the list was "an octopus with a 40-inch hose."

So the whole of the two teams flew out to Malta for the one day. Whilst escorted to the airport, one of the females asked, Where is Malta? Oh dear. Here is a rising professional, upon her the future of our country's economy will be dependent on, not knowing where Malta is? If I had been there with her, I probably would have answered, it's on this planet, dear!

Once landed on the South Mediterranean island, the men did take off their jackets but kept their shirts firmly buttoned and their ties fully done up. But to be fair to them, the filming was most likely done in the Spring, when the average Maltese temperature was about 17 degrees Celsius - not exactly sunburn weather. So appeared a team of what used to be called Yuppies (an acronym for Young Urban Professional). The Yuppie was the creme-de-la-creme of English City society back in the eighties when Conservative leader Margaret Thatcher - the first ever UK's female Prime Minister - was in power, and the sharply dressed Yuppie, with his astonishing wealth made so quickly over weeks rather than years or even months, was sometimes referred to as Thatcher's Children. And so, thirty years on, here they are, trying to get to grips with their new environment.

Lord Sugar included an octopus with a forty-inch hose on their shopping list. All the candidates were stunned by the request. This item was passed over by the women, one of several omissions which cost them the task. But the eight men were determined to include the octopus with their other purchases. Had I been there with them, I would have immediately realised that these eight-legged marine creatures don't have forty-inch hoses. Therefore I would have concluded there and then that the item was to be some man-made device bearing the same name, the conclusion I had right from the start whilst watching the programme.

Lord Sugar was referring to this.

The team had no knowledge of diving between all eight of them. Not one of them had any idea that a piece of diving equipment was referred to. And to be honest and fair, I have no knowledge on specific diving equipment either, even though I went on an actual dive at Rhodes during our honeymoon. There I was fitted with the appropriate equipment, including the octopus, by a supervisor without being told the detail of each piece of equipment.

Therefore, not knowing what an octopus is, and not permitted to Google the term either, I would have thought that having a marine name and a hose to go with it, all I had to do was walk into a shop which either sells fishing tackle or a dealer in diving equipment. It would have been risky, but making a fool of myself due to lack of knowledge - well, there was no other option. Real octopuses don't have 40" hoses! Therefore what would have been the outcome? 

I believe that the dealer in fishing tackle would have explained to me what an octopus is, and then directed me to the dive equipment shop. Or if it was the diving store I first walked into, the assistant would have placed several brands of the breathing device on the counter in front of me. A purchase is then made.

But what did these 'yuppie' friends do instead? Yes, they chose a fishmonger and in there, they spoke with an almost unbearable level of arrogance and ended up with buying a real dead octopus! They even had the "hose" measured, which was less than one inch in length when stretched. No matter. The item must be bagged.

The actual scene from The Apprentice, in Malta.

And the point in all this? Incredibly amusing. And perhaps shocking too. These men are our future business leaders, and post-Brexit Britain will depend on their skills to stabilise the economy. But as a retired window cleaner and most likely considered as not very clever or academic, I do feel that I could have done better, at least with this octopus gadget anyway. Like the time when I was guest at the home of a middle-class family of four, where both sons were due to attend university. After lunch, we were all engaged in a General Knowledge quiz board game. Much to my surprise, I managed to beat them. Then there was another middle-class professional couple with whom I played Scrabble. I have defeated them too, along with others where knowledge is part of the game, although to balance the books, I will admit being defeated several times by an adolescent young enough to be my son in a game of Trivial Pursuit.

Post-Brexit Britain, the creme-de-la-creme of English society, the backbone of Britain, such makes up many a Christian church here in the UK. But as a Christian, I do have very close friends who voted to leave the EU, but I don't allow this to get between us (as you might have already guessed: I voted to remain in the EU). Therefore it can be said that I have friends and Christian brothers among those who voted to leave the European Union as well as those who voted to remain. Yet through the power of Christ within us, we remain close.

It is a case when Christian fellowship should cover over differences of political opinion, and dare to say, I have friends in churches who also believe in Theistic Evolution instead of Divine Creation as described in the Bible. And that, I believe, is what God's desire for all mankind is all about. The friendship between us that is, without compromising on my convictions. First be reconciled to God, having all his sins forgiven, acquitted, regenerated, and being led by the Holy Spirit dwelling within. And all this can only come through faith in Jesus Christ, his death on the Cross, his burial, and his Resurrection.

I suppose The Apprentice is just the opposite, in a sense a representation of Darwinianism. The survival of the fittest, the elimination of the weakest candidate. And each week there will always be the weakest candidate and he or she has to go. I guess, rather than evolution, it represents natural selection. True enough, but neither man or woman actually evolves. There will never be some kind of superhuman working with Lord Sugar. Instead, the entire series is nothing more than the struggle between candidates for survival - in this case, to remain in the process. Even within team co-ordination, disagreements arise which can lead to verbal fights, although I have yet to see an actual physical fight. That would make the whole programme very colourful, would it not?

I think programmes such as The Apprentice is fun to watch. Could there be something within us, a longing desire to see some very proud and arrogant would-be professional facing humiliation in view of the whole nation? The crass stupidity shown especially by the men when they entered en bloc into a fishmonger's and then deliver a lecture about an octopus with a 40" hose, has surely tickled our fancy. Surely, the very puzzlement shown by the fishmonger should have been a clear enough signal that something is not right here. But such blindness and crass stupidity combined with unadulterated pride, self-confidence, and arrogance reveal a hole in each of their hearts which only the Resurrected Christ can fill.

The Cell Phone, Eugenics, and Darwin

One example of forgetfulness occurred last week when my wife and I booked into a hotel in London for a couple of nights. It was late on the first evening when that characteristic and instantly recognisable sound began to issue from within my rucksack at approximately ten-minute intervals:

Bleep...Bleep...Bleep...Bleep...

"Oh no!" I exclaimed. "The cell phone battery is dead and do you know what? I have forgotten to bring the charger."

After a while, as my wife and I were together in bed, she asked,

"Can you remove the battery? I can't sleep with that sound."

I was reluctant at first, as I'm one of those people, where anything is involved, after taking something apart, I always find it impossible to put back together again. So instead, I arose, took the rucksack and wrapped the Vodaphone in thick clothing and placed it back inside the bag. No use. The bleep has that capacity to penetrate any material, regardless of how thick the wrapping may be. Therefore, I managed to pry the phone open and removed the battery from its place. At last, no more bleeping.

Only to replace the battery once back at home, and seeing no response after connecting with its charger. And so, what was wrong? Was it the phone? Well, the unit screen lit up and it started to bleep again, confirming that the battery and back cover were both replaced properly. So could it be the charger itself? Or even the wall socket? So I plugged the charger into another socket. Still no response. And then the phone beeped. It never does that during the powering-up process. So I guess the fault must be with the charger.

Oh, the mystery of technology! It's as if the length of wire had taken offence at being left behind at home, and decided to call it a day at that particular weekend. After making several inquiries at different outlets and getting nowhere, I decided to buy a new cell phone altogether. After all, I had the present one for several years already. And I wanted a phone - yes, just a phone, a device for making calls and to speak to the person at the other end. None of this smartphone lark, which is basically a miniature mobile computer, complete with the Internet.

Never in a million years would I look like and act like a zombie, walking with half-glazed eyes fixed on the device held in front, not looking where I'm going, and being totally unaware of a fast-approaching cyclist or a crushingly-dumb dog-walker who, in all his wisdom, had decided to let his Staffie off its lead in public. Neither would I ever carry an Internet terminal with me wherever I go. After all, I have recently read that Google is able to track you down through the smartphone, no matter where you may be. After all, I don't feel comfortable having someone gawking at me whilst having a pee at a public restroom.

Therefore, a new mobile phone I was after. As I approached the Vodaphone outlet, this woman, half my age but considerably taller, sprinted to the door just as I was about to enter. I was furious! But all I did was mutter under my breath. British stiff upper lip? Or rather I did not want to create a scene. After a couple of minutes, an assistant appeared from the stockroom behind the shop, and he approached me. I directed him to the tall lady who was browsing nearby. At least she was decent enough to realise what she had done was wrong, or that her conscience was bothering her, because she redirected the assistant back to me, and I proceded with the purchase of a new phone.

With my wife, I spent a couple of nights at a rather expensive hotel in London. It has nothing to do with poshness, this particular hotel was step-free from street to our room, a necessity for one confined to a wheelchair. There are many cheaper hotels around, especially in Pimlico, but all have a flight of steps leading to the front door, and furthermore, each being set in a former Victorian residence, lifts were never included in its design. 

This trip was made to attend a two-day Creation International Conference held at the beautiful and large Emmanual Centre, not far from the Houses of Parliament. Three of us attended, a very good friend of ours from another church, my wife and myself. All three of us are devout Young-Earth Creationists, and this conference was in full support of what is taught in the Bible. Just to add, this was not our initial meeting. Creation International had its first ever conference two years previously at the same venue. Back then, as this time, the talks delivered were very edifying.

Creation International Conference 2018, Emmanuel Centre.

The opening talk I found very powerful. How the authority of the Bible was destroyed in Western society by the advent of Darwinism. For me, this is very serious stuff! Because, although hard it may be to believe, I do see a connection between Darwinism and the behaviour of the female at the entrance of the Vodaphone outlet, namely in a sense, being part of her struggle for survival and with such belief, blocking her mind from the truth of the Gospel.

This also brings grief to me. Yes, I have a concern when I looked in an old edition of The Guinness Book of Records which featured a photo of the largest crowd on Earth, which was made up of Hindus gathering for a national festival in India. The crowd was massive. I thought about babies born, grew up, and living a normal life there, without any opportunity to hear and believe the Gospel of Christ. It was easy for me to be grateful that I was born in a Christian country where the Gospel is, or meant to be, available at any mainstream church I called at, regardless of denomination. What hope is there for these Hindus? Or for that matter, having been born in a Middle Eastern country where Islam has full reign? Or even born in Soviet Russia, or in China, back then both under the grip of atheistic Communism?

Really, what is happening in the world? Why such hostility against the truth of the Bible and the Gospel of Christ? It seems as though there are invisible forces in the air, carrying a ferocious hatred of the Truth, and ensuring that mankind as a whole either rejects the Gospel or kept in ignorance of it, so I was reminded at the conference. Europe under Christian influence? This might have been the case during the 18th Century when the Reformation was underway and sporadic revivals took place. But in the 19th Century, something incredulous happened. How could a tiny acorn grow into a mighty oak tree which branches had covered the entire globe? 

It was at the conference, which boasted a Christian bookshop based mainly on Creationism, that I bought a book, Hitler and the Nazi Darwinian Worldview, by Jerry Bergman. A fascinating book, it confirms what I have already suspected, and featured in one of my previous blogs, that there is a direct connection between Darwin's theory of evolution, the survival of the fittest, and natural selection. Darwin's book, On the Origins of Species, was read and absorbed by Darwin's cousin, Englishman Francis Galton, who transferred the universal biological idea of survival of the fittest to social evolution. He wrote, Hereditary Genious, a book on eugenics which became very popular among German scientists and academics. His work was about humans who are physically, mentally or psychologically weak, along with the deformed, the cretin, the homosexual, the non-white, even the politically deviant, all must be wiped off this planet in order to make way for the strong, that is the Aryan Race, which is the tall, white, intelligent German society.

One thing which struck me whilst reading Bergman's book. That is if Darwinism, along with Galton's writings, had never taken off or even ever published, the chance was there would have been no World War II, neither would the Holocaust had ever taken place.

Survival of the fittest involves the mass death of "the weak" in order to make room for "the strong". Not only does this mean the elimination of up to six million Jews, but also the elimination of five million Slavic peoples, making a total of eleven million innocent people exterminated at Nazi death camps during the War. The idea of all this was to allow the German Aryan race thrive and prosper, allowing them to spread across the globe under intense nationalistic and imperialistic beliefs.

Kill the weak! Exterminate the deformed! Put an end to the mentally handicapped! Also, destroy all other "subhumans" including non-Caucasians! Make sure all Jews are exterminated! Make way for the strong! Be patriotic for Germany! Build a worldwide Empire! How diametrically opposed to the teachings of Jesus Christ all that is!

Academics, particularly Darwin, Galton, Hitler and many of his educated supporters hated the teachings of Christ, even if both Charles Darwin and Adolf Hitler, along with others, might have put on a religious front to suit their own purposes or to advance their cause. Yet, Darwinism with its evolutionary theories, the concept of survival of the fittest through natural selection dominates our thinking to the extent that only a tiny minority here in the UK accept the Bible as factual history, whilst the evolutionary concept is constantly pushed as fact by the likes of David Attenborough, Andrew Marr, Brian Cox, and others.

At the opening talk, Creation International Conference 2018.

The only way to combat such deadly heresy is to accept the Bible as the true and historic Word of God. And that includes the historicity of the first chapter of Genesis:

In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth - Genesis 1:1.

That is no myth, it's history. As much history as the facts about Henry VIII and his six wives. The early chapters of Genesis are not a myth, neither should it be equalled with the legends found in the Babylonian Enuma Elish with its mythical tale of Creation, or from the Gilgamesh Epic, also Babylonian, depicting the legendary version of Noah and the Deluge. Earlier this year we had a graduate preach on the equality of Genesis with the Enuma Elish, thus denying the historicity of the Biblical version and relegating it to mythology.* That is a very dangerous road to take! Perhaps without the graduate realising it, it's not far from believing in Theistic Evolution and eventually to apostasy.

My plea to this graduate and his ilk is: Renounce any mythical dimension of the Creation story and accept and preach the historicity and truthfulness of the first eleven chapters of Genesis. None of these chapters is myth, legend or fable. They are as much factual history as any textbook on British history.

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*For my blog in direct referral, click here.

The Joys and Regrets of Autumn.

Autumn. Well at least according to the Meteorological Office, which makes September 1st the start of Autumn. To me, the season begins at the Autumn Equinox, when the sun is directly over the Equator, on its way towards the southern Tropic of Capricorn. Thus making the day and night exactly the same length around the whole globe, with the exception of the Polar regions, where there is a perpetual twilight of dusk at the Arctic Ocean in the North, and an equal dawn over Antarctica. And that happens around September 21st or 22nd. Not September 1st. Therefore, while this is being written, technically it's still Summer. 

And so the world turns. And at the same time, it flies through space at a set path around the Sun, its axis remains at a constant 23.5 degree tilt from vertical, giving us the seasons, essential for life. Indeed, who would ever think that this is a well-designed cosmic mechanism? Back in the 70's, I was sitting at a G.C.E. Geography lesson in an evening class when the lecturer challenged us with a question: What do our planet and a spaceship have in common? No one could answer, including me.

Of course, both fly through space and both are crewed. Damn it! Why didn't I think of that? The only difference is that the crew of the spaceship has full control of the speed and direction of the ship. As for our planet, no human has any control, despite its large population of seven billion. However, he should have added a third. That is, both are designed. After all, nobody would bat an eyelid with the idea that the spaceship was designed and built by human (or even alien) hands. But the thought that the Earth has a Designer? That is a different matter altogether. Somehow, we seem content that our planet, with its dizzying complexity of life, had come to be by absolute chance, the result of a condensation of gas and dust floating across a vast cosmic expanse, and all by sheer coincidence as well.

And so, back in July, it was a joy to see many cheerful faces walking the pedestrianised streets, to watch them relax at a Starbucks or Costa Coffee, lightly dressed in casuals. Some of the younger men showing off their chests and bare arms through a tank top, others wore crew-necks, still others with open collars. The tie was more difficult to find than an oasis in the desert, such a well-to-do cloth status symbol looks to be confined to school children, news anchormen, estate agents and insurance brokers.

Newspaper photos show beaches packed with sunbathers, many daring to venture to their waists into the sea. Meanwhile, businesses thrive with high sales of ice cream, popsicles and seaside rock. Further inland, theme parks boasting gut-wrenching roller coasters, spinners, rifle stalls and water chutes, are all experiencing overcrowding, with long queues snaking from the gates to the more thrilling rides. But as with all things, there is always the underbelly. Many who were too pessimistic over our British climate headed to the airport for a flight out to Spain, Majorca or the party island of Ibiza. 

They tell us that they fly to the sunshine to escape the wet and windy British "Summer" but really it's little more than a booze cruise, with a touch of sunburn to complement. Most make it back home in fairly good form but not without the reported minority who had to pay a visit to a hospital or even banged up for the night. There are even reports of assaults, even murder of our tourists by the locals or by other tourists.

What has happened to travel, real travel? Like the trips I made which involved hiking the Grand Canyon on the Bright Angel Trail to stand by the fast-flowing Colorado River and then looking up at the fantastic display of stars on a clear night. Or snorkelling at the Great Barrier Reef followed by time spent gazing up at the Southern Cross constellation with the whole sky streaked from horizon to horizon with the hazy band of the Milky Way. Or wading through a 2,700-year-old tunnel hewn out of solid rock deep beneath the ancient city of Jerusalem, a work of a team led by an Old Testament Biblical king. Then not forgetting the sub-tropical zoological gardens of San Diego with its spectacular canyon, nearby Sea World where I got thoroughly soaked by an orca, watching seals relax at San Francisco's Pier 39, and even admiring Vaillancourt Fountain, considered by many to be the city's ugliest monument.

Vaillancourt Fountain, San Francisco. Visited 1995.

Sure, I was not a teetotaler. I did allow myself an alcoholic drink or two, but never to excess. I did not find drunkenness to be a necessity. The sights I came to see were enough to blow my mind without the need for any stimulant! For me, just a mere sight of palm trees and cacti thriving in their own environments, the latter especially around Phoenix, Malta and Lanzarote; along with the mangroves with their roots underwater at high tide at the Pacific coast of Australia. All of these reminds me of such a beautiful world, rich with variety, which God had made for a combination of his own glory and as an inhabitation for mankind, for whom God the Son himself allowed incarnation in order to rescue us from our shortcomings.

Although when I was Down Under during June and July 1997, their "Winter" meant that it was slightly less warm, and wetter than had I gone in January, although it was in the thirties Celcius in North Queensland, but considerable cooler once in New South Wales. By the time I reached Sydney, I had to dress more heavily. But such a change in temperature from cool to hot was noticed immediately after stepping out of San Diego airport, after an overnight trans-Pacific flight to Los Angeles from Sydney. I was back in Summer. The point of all this is to emphasise the real joy of travel without the risk of drunkenness, hospital visits, a possible imprisonment, or even suffering from an assault.

And now, as I write this, another UK Summer is about to end, and Autumn is soon to begin. People have already begun to wear heavier clothing, the kids have taken their school uniform out of their wardrobes, and in the Press, reports of parents' displeasure over their school's overstrict discipline on what to wear and what not to wear begun to appear in newspapers. As some people have already complained, these articles keep on appearing around early September year after year. I guess this is part of British idiosyncrasy, this obsession with school uniform. Perhaps if I was able to rejuvenate myself to a teenager without losing a single strand of memory, I would like to walk into a school minus a tie and watch the reaction from the staff. And then if challenged, point to a nearby office and ask why most, if not all employees, can come in with their own freedom of expression. I would love to hear what the teacher or headmaster would have to say to that. 

But for me, Autumn has a wider meaning to life as a whole. It means the latter part of my life after retiring from work, a gradual decline in health, and for that matter, a greater restriction of travel. No, not quite housebound, at least not yet. For example, my original plan for this year was to take Alex to Marseilles on the south coast of France. Throughout the season, Eurostar runs trains directly from London St. Pancras to Marseilles St. Charles, passing through the Channel Tunnel. The idea was to visit the fantastic cliffs and rock formation of nearby Calanques National Park, with spectacular views delighting any landscape photographer.

But with Alex experiencing excruciating back pains, which are imminent, such a trip would be ruined, as I have to constantly monitor her condition, constantly looking out for any sign of distress. Not that the hiking trails are easily accessible to wheelchairs anyway. 

Therefore we enjoyed a train journey to North Wales instead, as this was her choice. Although feeling much safer staying in a country where any NHS hospital is free to the point of use, nevertheless, towards the end of our return journey into London, she was in agony with excruciating back pain. We left London Euston for a taxi ride to a nearby hospital where she eventually made a good recovery. But the dreadful thought of, for example, having to alight from the Eurostar train at Lyon for a dash to the city hospital, then face a mountain of French bureaucracy, and still be landed with a huge bill - this cannot bear thinking about.

As for me, in my present condition, I cannot imagine attempting another hike down into Grand Canyon. Now diagnosed with heart failure and on a lifelong course of Warfarin, this 19.2-mile return trip to the Colorado River and Phantom Ranch could do me in, especially at the last three miles up Jacob's Ladder, the series of tough switchbacks up the South Rim wall. Yet I still have some regrets. I have never tried the nearby South Kaibab Trail, which offers even more spectacular views. But as with the Calanques National Park, such a loss is something I will have to live with.

With me being well into my sixties, I always consider how fortunate I really am. Past generations were fortunate to reach this age, and if they did, it was normally visualised as a white-haired gentleman smoking a pipe, confined to his armchair in front of a blazing coal-fire and surrounded by his grandchildren. Rather how one in his mid-eighties would look like in our present day. The Beatles even released a hit in 1967, When I'm Sixty Four, in their album, Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, depicting the typical character that would befit an eighty-four-year-old gentleman of today. It was a song I thought much of after my 64th birthday, however, I do not think that a weekly routine of lane swimming, long walks, gym workouts and cycling over five miles each way were any part of the Beatles' equation for one of my age.

And I am thankful to God for my being, the ability to reach an age of retirement, yet still regularly swim, cycle, walk and use the Concept 2 rowing machine. These exercises were the advice my Doctor delivered to me at the end of my convalescence following my heart surgery in 2015. But not all for nothing. I have a job to do, a job which I believe God has assigned to me to last throughout retirement. And that is to love, care for and look after my partially disabled wife.

If it takes sacrificing that which I love most - international travel - then so be it. I know it hurts, it hurts me quite badly, but with God's help and through his grace, my love I have for my wife will triumph. However, I do believe that God can and does work in mysterious ways, who knows, one day we could be on board a Eurostar train once again or even, heaven forbid, heading for the airport. But these things I leave in God's hands. I am aware that he knows best, and he wants to have the best for us. Indeed, to have the National Health Service free to the point of use is something to thank God for. Whether we ought to believe in divine miracles or not, the NHS is certainly a very useful, life-saving channel, and I thank God for giving us all brains capable of retaining knowledge no other animal species can retain, and then putting such knowledge into such good use.

I'm lucky to be alive! Sure, so very true. And as God keeps me breathing, the breath of life entering my nostrils which then passes through the trachea to fill the little alveoli which make up my lungs, with oxygen, which in turn enters my bloodstream pumped by my heart - indeed, the moment God withdraws the breath of life, my spirit and soul departs from my body, leaving a corpse ready for burial...

Suddenly, everything falls into place, I'm in the autumn of my life, only God knows how many days I have left to live under the sun. But it is my hope, my prayer, that I fulfil God's will in my life, whether I will ever travel again or not, for the remaining days I have left.

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 Wedding Reception Fiasco...

I was taken aback by the messaging board which trailed one particular online article in The Daily Mail national newspaper. Before you think to yourself, oh no, not another of this Remoaner's anti-Brexit fodder, I quickly wish to say that this time it's not political - rather it's to do with Jesus Christ changing water into wine at a wedding in Cana, often referred to as his first miracle.

Indeed, it could well turn political. After all, who among wine merchants in his right mind would wish for such a source for the best wine on the market, and make a huge profit so quickly? So much so, that the taxman will soon be sniffing around, perhaps rather like the tax collector Matthew did soon after Jesus instructed Peter and his mates to relaunch their boats as recorded in Luke 5:4-7. What a bountiful catch! Without a shadow of a doubt, the most hated Matthew would have been very interested indeed.

And hated by the Jewish community in which he serves - a servant to the Romans that is, whose empire having a dominant rule over all of Israel, both the Galilean region in the North and Judea in the South. Therefore it would have come as no surprise that Matthew the tax collector was perceived as a traitor to Israel, a wretched nuisance, like a bluebottle constantly buzzing around with its irritating presence. Sounds familiar?

Throughout his ministry, Jesus seemed to be interested in providing free food to the surrounding populace. The water-into-wine was the first case, then all four Gospel writers record the feeding of the five thousand from just five loaves and two fishes, followed by the feeding of four thousand from seven loaves and a few fish. However, the second near-identical miracle was recorded only by Matthew and Mark. Finally, John records an incident when, after his Resurrection, he instructs Peter and his fellow crew members to throw the net from the other side of the boat, resulting in another abundant catch after a whole night of empty nets.

Perhaps the political significance in all of this most likely have been, that the Conservatives would encourage business growth, pushing for greater profits by further capitalisation by performing miracles on a daily routine, and to build a cluster of shareholders. On the other hand, a Labour administration would have encouraged higher taxation in order to fund the Police, the NHS, Social Care, and other public bodies. Not at all popular this higher taxation idea might be, but if they so much want public services to be at their prime, somehow they all have to be paid for.

However, it's the water-into-wine miracle of more concern here. Only John records this sign. Here was a wedding feast, something very different to the rather stiff and formal British wedding reception which last up to only a couple of hours, and that's it. Here was a party, where everyone invited was having a whale of a time, talking, laughing, guffawing and dancing to music. The festivities lasted up to a week, and normally there would be enough wine to last the entire duration. But not at this particular instant.

It might have been the last day of the festival, or it might have been halfway through. Maybe those who did the accounting had gotten their sums wrong, and underestimated the supply. Whichever case it might have been, there sat Jesus along with his mother. Now here is an interesting scenario. How I would have loved to transport some of our church members at Ascot back two millennia and usher them into the festivity! What a shock they would get. All this "worldliness" and there is Jesus their Messiah looking on, even enjoying a chat with one or several of the guests. In horror, my church friends would most likely respond by asking Jesus:

Lord! Lord! Can't you see how worldly, irreligious and carnal this lot are? Surely you can't admit them into Heaven. Come on! Look at the way they are behaving! Back in our church we would never dream of such inebriated, shocking behaviour!

To which his reply would be entirely predictable:

The tax collectors and prostitutes will enter the Kingdom of God before you (Matthew 21:31).

And what's with the online newspaper article which appeared only a couple of days ago? It was about the location of the wedding. Yes, it was at Cana, a town in the Galilee region, not far from Nazareth. At the traditional area, the name of the site is Kafr Kanna, where a church was built to commemorate the event. But archaeologists have discovered a site some five miles north, in a cave tunnel among the ruins of a village, known as Khirbet Qana. The reason for their optimism that this may be the original location is because of several ancient artifacts in direct connection with Jesus has been found there. A dating of the ruins, along with historic manuscripts, confirmed that the settlement was a community at its peak at the time of the wedding, a flourishing town.

Therefore the actual site of the wedding is in dispute, exactly like the site of the Crucifixion and Burial of Jesus of Nazareth. There are two sites of the Crucifixion and Burial, at different parts of Jerusalem Old City. I was fortunate enough to visit both of them. The traditional site is the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, situated within the Christian Quarter. Within the same building, both the site of the Cross and the tomb where he was buried are located. At least four churches have a claim to the site: The Roman Catholic, the Eastern Orthodox, the Coptic Church and the Armenian Church. Indeed it is a beautiful, historic edifice, but any sense of the real site has been lost due to its presence, its religious and commercial significance of the basilica.

Protestants don't have any part in the Holy Sepulchre, as these claims were already made long before the Reformation. Instead, they claim that a different site, just outside the Damascus Gate, and close to the Arab Bus Station, there is a hill which on its south side are two openings, or caves, resembling eyeless sockets, hence the name Golgotha. Nearby there is a ancient tomb, and if you were to go on a prayer trip or any church-organised Holy Land tour, it's here you will be taken to:- the Garden Tomb, also known as Gordon's Calvary, after a British military commander Charles Gordon who declared the site as authentic. But although the site remains under his name, there were also several Anglican scholars, mostly British, who endorsed the site as being the actual tomb of Christ some years before Gordon endorsed it. 

The Garden Tomb, also known as Gordon's Calvary.

Yet there is another reason why these scholars dismiss the Holy Sepulchre as being without authenticity. And that is because the church is located within the present city walls, whilst the Bible places the Cross and Tomb outside the city walls. However, archaeology has questioned the course of the ancient walls at the time of Christ, believing that the site of the Holy Sepulchre was outside the wall back then. There is apparently an archaeological site revealing the ancient course of the wall on the west side of the city, but doors of the building housing the dig remained closed throughout my whole stay in Jerusalem, something I have found to be very frustrating. 

By visiting both, I can make a first-hand comparison between the disputed sites. For example, I recall sitting in the bus bound for Hebron in 1993, actually facing the hill of Golgotha. As I waited for the bus to depart, I could see those two caves so clearly, just a few metres away from where I was sitting. No wonder Gordon and his ilk were impressed. Golgotha does have a resemblance of a skull. But there is one very small snag concerning the tomb itself. Because of the type of interior design when the tomb was hewn out, archaeologists have identified its age as between 7th to 8th Century BC. This flatly contradicts the "newly hewn tomb where no man had ever been laid" of Joseph of Arimathea, recorded by Matthew (27:57-61) and John 19:38-42.

Anyone who has familiarised with the history of the Reformation would realise the hostility which developed between the two parties. With no claim to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, I'm not at all surprised that the Protestants chose a different site to authenticate the empty tomb of Christ, mainly to discredit any authenticity the Catholics (along with associated churches) would have on the site of the Crucifixion and Burial. The Protestants (including the Anglican Church) would have had heaps of evidence to prove their point, except on the age of the tomb itself, enough to burst the balloon.

I have stood at the Garden tomb in 1994, and looked in. Like the apostle John, I did not see the body either, but I had already believed long before I arrived there. The snag was, I was not too convinced that this was the true site. It was a tomb alright, a genuine ancient tomb hewn out of solid rock, but it failed to convince me that this was the tomb of Christ.

But with the Holy Sepulchre, there was that authentic air about it. In all four visits to Israel (alone in 1976, 1993, 1994, and with Alex in 2000) I just stood there, transfixed at what I was looking at. Despite my multiple visits, I never cease to be amazed over the fact that I could be standing literally at the very foot of the Cross of Christ as he hung there, atoning for my sins.

Authentic site of the Crucifixion, Holy Sepulchre.

The Holy Sepulchre itself. Inside, Alex knelt and prayed.

And so going back to the wedding festival. Like with the Holy Sepulchre, the traditional site of the nuptials is at Kafr Kanna, and it where pilgrims has been visiting for centuries. But now a new site is claiming authenticity, at a ruin of Khirbet Qana, some five miles north of the traditional site. The Holy Sepulchre versus the Garden Tomb all over again, with the exception that I have never visited Kafr Kanna, mainly due to transportation restrictions, unable to hire and drive a car.

And the comment forum under the article. The greater majority of comments posted ridicules the Bible and any belief in a god. As one commentator wrote - about an invisible friend in the sky who has written ten things we ought not to do, and then sends everyone who had broken these rules to a smoke-filled fire where one will be tortured for all eternity. But never mind, he loves you, he loves you so much. Then someone further down, no doubt a typical Christian, quotes Psalm 14 - The fool who say in his heart, "There is no God..." and finishes with the words, "This applies to you."

I suppose that is what I would expect from a typical Western Christian - a punitive attitude, the sort of attitude that would damn the soul of a skeptic rather than lead him to salvation. And with more and more comments of unbelief filling the messaging board, it makes me gain a perspective of a country which calls itself Christian but tending to lean on agnostic and atheistic ideas. The irony is, all these skeptical comments which questions the authority of the Bible and the existence of God, they trail an article about a wedding in Cana, a wedding which Jesus attended, and a new site has been discovered which may be more authentic. Yet its readers instead lash out angrily against the existence of God. 

Much to do with sin and a guilty conscience, a conscience which can be allayed by belief in evolution. Rather, I'm coming to think it's not so much as religion versus science as science is used as a panacea against a troubled conscience, the awareness of sin and the thought of a possible Judgement. After all, if Adam and Eve had never existed, then Jesus of Nazareth never existed either (if he did, then only as another moral teacher, nothing more.) If Jesus never existed, then there is that possibility of no Judgement, no Heaven and no Hell. Death to the body will be the end of everything, a concept accepted and believed by many. And a concept which goes hand-in-hand with Darwin evolution, believed by the vast majority of Brits at present.

With much of the UK falling into apostasy, one thing I'm grateful for. Yes, very grateful for, and that God is very, very patient, as he waits, not willing that anyone should perish, but all should come to repentance (2 Peter 3:9).

No Bedbugs at Hampton Court!

Two weeks previously, I have written a tongue-in-cheek conversation which, with a hint of of a remote possibility, could have taken place among the family members of Conservative MP Jacob Rees-Mogg. Such talking was from his eldest son's perspective, to ponder what was going through his mind as he wrapped a tie around his collared shirt and completed the knot, in preparation for a visit to New York's Empire State Building.

What was he thinking or feeling? Was he enjoying a state of euphoria in the knowledge that he was born into a family of Eton-educated aristocrats? And to wear a tie on a hot summer's day while on holiday added emphasis to his social standing? And was he also keen to visit churches, palaces or even a museum?

Or on the contrary, was the son acting like a typical teenager, pleading with his parents to visit the Six Flags theme park and funfair rather than visiting boring churches, or dry-as-dust, hands-off exhibits displayed at a museum of Victorian culture, especially about displays of ladies' clothing of that period? And did he envy slightly older teenagers out on a beach or theme park, having a wonderful time under the warm sunshine, and not a tie to be seen among a crowd of thousands?

Recalling as a child myself, I cannot deny that I firmly belong to the second category. Although having said that, as a boy I did find the Museum of Natural History in the London borough of South Kensington very intriguing - exciting rather, even if all the exhibits there were not to be touched. Indeed, I could ask: What is it about the skeleton of an ancient beast we kids find so inspiring? By contrast, I found the hands-off exhibits within the Victoria and Albert Museum very boring, even though it's housed in a far more elegant building, which boasts Greek/Roman columns and topped with a same style pediment, and located right next door to the Natural History Museum. Then again, how could I ever forget the nearby Science Museum with its hands-on exhibits, multiple crank-handles to turn, and buttons to press to see the exhibit actually function - especially in the Children's Gallery?

And there is Hampton Court Palace located in the Richmond area of Greater London. Building commenced in 1515 to be the home of Cardinal Wolsey, and then after falling out of favour with the reigning monarch, the palace was given as a gift to King Henry VIII. The palace remained lived in until the death of its final resident, Prince William, Duke of Cumberland in 1765, before it was opened for the public by Queen Victoria in 1838.

Like all the exhibits in the Victoria and Albert Museum, Hampton Court Palace was loved by Mum, who always had a specific interest in British history, especially about past monarchs, with King Henry VIII with his six wives being the most prominent of them all. Little wonder the filmmakers here in the UK choose this particular king to base their multiple Period TV series which were broadcast over the decades. Without a doubt, for her to visit his former home gave her great inspiration to learn of his life. But as a youngster, such was not particular for me. Instead, I had to tow along, bored as I could be, but without (if I remember) making any real fuss.

After all, we passed one bedroom after another. Indeed the aesthetic paneling lining the walls made the chamber very unusual, rather nice actually, but the bed is like all other double beds I have ever seen, except that it wasn't slept in for centuries. With one bedroom following another, each bed might have a different coloured cover but so what? It's just another bed, ready to receive the next occupant. No doubt, with no dead human skin cells to smear the sheeting for two centuries, despite the wide choice of available bedclothes, no bedbug had any hope of standing a chance for a free feed, therefore seeking their luck elsewhere. Surely, to see such natural activity among bedbugs would have made the visit a lot more interesting!

One of several bedrooms at Hampton Court.

To feel bored over repetitive bedrooms at a palace, or by staring at a old frock once worn by a Victorian duchess, is simply out of immaturity. I was too young to understand. Far more appealing, as museums have anything to go by, is where I can do something, such as turning a crank and watching the exhibit function, the moving parts driven by hidden rotors causing the displayed mechanism to work as intended. This includes, for example, the spark generated by the Van de Graaff generator, the spark firing painlessly at my fingertip as I turn the crank beneath it.

Both the Science and Natural History Museums were visited from time to time well into adulthood. Then, as at present, a corridor linked the two museums together, to walk from one into the other made a full day out pretty straightforward. But as for the Victoria and Albert, I stayed well away. I simply wasn't interested. That is, until I met and married Alex. Like my mother, Alex too had an interest in history, with four-poster beds and meticulously woven linen which always held some inspiration for her.

Therefore, more than three years after the birth of our first daughter, a good mate of mine from church, Geoff, agreed to take us to Hampton Court, for he was the only one who owned a drives a car. How things were different this time. This time, as we sauntered past one room after another, I found myself appreciating the historic significance of these displays. Also Geoff, a graduate who has remained unmarried to this day, enjoyed acting as Daddy to our daughter, purposely lingered behind with her whilst my wife and I absorbed the aesthetic historicity of the King's former home.

It was several years later when Alex and I decided to spend a day in London to visit the Victoria and Albert Museum. There were no queues leading to its doors, unlike with the other two museums, with both having long queues of people snaking into the street. Such as deciding to visit on a weekend or during school holidays. Despite still having a stunted interest in period clothing, it was a joy to watch my beloved taking delight in such displays. Particularly with furniture, jewelry, ceramics, and art, such historic beauty meant to be appreciated as well as their utility. The sort of displays which would have bored me to tears as a boy, but finding such an exhibition of far greater inspiration as well as interest as an adult.

The rate of personal maturation can also be demonstrated between two visits to the Gateway Arch at St Louis, Missouri whilst backpacking across the USA, first in 1978, then again in 1995.

Standing 192 metres high, this stainless steel arch marks the Gateway to the West, which, according to a map of the USA hung on a wall of the museum, there was a trail beginning here in Missouri and leading Northwest to the Pacific coast of Oregon. Visitors can ascend to the apex of the Arch by means of a unique elevator within the structure, a tram consisting of eight claustrophobic cylinders strung together side by side, each drum holding up to five people. The tram can also be likened to a Ferris wheel, as each drum rights itself in accordance with the curvature of the arch.

Inside a drum of the Arch tram.

As a 25-year-old, after finding out about such an unusual mode of transport, it was easy to forget about the Visitor's Center and underground museum from where I am to board the tram. After a four-minute ride to the viewing gallery, I enjoyed a fantastic view of the city from one side, and the view of the Mississippi River which forms the frontier with the State of Illinois, from the other side of the gallery. Afterwards I made the descent down the other side of the Arch inside an identical cylinder. Unfortunately at the time, I didn't give much of a toss about the museum. Instead, I made my way back into the city.

Move forward seventeen years and I was back at the same venue. As with the first visit, I made the ascent to the viewing gallery to enjoy the spectacular views. But after I was back down, I wanted to explore the underground museum and examine the exhibits displayed there. It was there where I spent much of the day in enjoyment, learning about how the early settlers made their way towards the Pacific Coastline with an interest which I didn't feel so much on the first visit.

Therefore we were both ready to visit the Houses of Parliament earlier this week. That's the wonderful thing about marriage! Venues such as Hampton Court Palace, the Victoria and Albert Museum and even the Palace of Versailles in France, I would never have considered visiting except for my beloved having an interest. Therefore, from hint after hint, I eventually gave in and booked two tickets for an audio tour of the House of Parliament, made possible by the Government being on its Summer recess.

Two kinds of tours were available to the public. The escorted tour and the audio tour. Being independent as I have always been, I did not hesitate to choose the latter, as this would allow us to complete the tour at our own pace rather than decided by somebody else. Since Alex was in a wheelchair, we found the staff very courteous and helpful, ensuring that we were set on the right course before starting the tour on our own.

After visiting St Stephen's Hall, the Central Lobby, the Robing Room, the Royal Gallery and the House of Lords, we hit the climax - the House of Commons. As Alex remained in her wheelchair, I stood spellbound in this chamber, standing directly over where the Mace lies during a Parliament session. All the green seats were vacant, but I recognised where the Prime Minister sat, just a metre or so from where I was standing. From each seat a small microphone hangs by a cable from the ceiling (the same in the House of Lords) which is something I had never noticed when watching the News on television. No wonder why, when a MP needs to deliver a speech, he needs to stand up. This had always been necessary in order for him to speak into the microphone, as if deliberately set at the right height for this purpose.

In all, our tour took just over two hours, which was approximately forty minutes longer than stated on the itinerary, thanks to our slow and relaxing pace. It was certainly very enlightening! Even with the Chamber of Commons, on television it looks larger and more cavernous than in reality. I was rather taken back over the fact that the chamber is smaller than I have imagined.

About to enter the Houses of Parliament, taken August 2018.

This is all about maturing as an adult. This brings to mind the instruction to all new believers in Jesus Christ as Saviour, to feed on the milk of the Word of God, and to grow in faith until ready to feed on strong meat.

I think my childhood experience with palaces and museums is a good illustration of one who has recently converted to Christ. Just as palace bedrooms and period clothes would have bored my pants off, not yet ready to appreciate the historical significance of these artifacts, so as unlikely for a new convert to understand the deeper significance of the Bible. For example, I would not be expected to understand the vision of the four beasts rising from a turbulent ocean detailed in the Book of Daniel. Instead I would be encouraged to read and study the Gospel of John. Likewise, a new believer would not be expected to exhibit spiritual maturity. This comes after a time, whether weeks, months, or years of reading the Bible and allowing to be filled and led by the Holy Spirit.

A boy may see a man with a beard, and decides that he wants one himself. So he starts praying for it fervently, even setting aside times of fasting. But the beard doesn't begin to grow, no matter how fervent his prayers are. But once grown into adulthood, he'll see that the beard will begin to grow on its own accord without the need of a single prayer!

My childhood boredom with palaces and stuffy museums is not due to rebellion or nastiness. Rather, its due to immaturity. Likewise, if you see a new believer, or any believer behaving in an unrighteous or apparently godless way, even if he regularly attends church, likewise it may not be due to willful rebellion, nor lack of salvation, but immaturity. He needs to feed on the spiritual milk before expecting him to feed on strong meat.