Category: living wittily

Those reading the comments on the NT Haiku Post will have noticed that my normally reliable arithmetic suffered a recent lapse. However, though this might have undermined my theological confidence, I appeal to Basil the Great to put such a marginal lapse in arithmeticality in its proper persepctive.

When the Lord taught us the doctrine of Father, Son and Holy Spirit, he did not make arithmetic a part of this gift! He did not say, ‘In the first, the second, and the third’, or ‘In one, two and three’…The Unapproachable One is beyond numbers, wisest sirs…There is one God, and Father, One Only Begotten Son, and one Holy Spirit. We declare each Person to be unique, and if we must use numbers, we will not let a stupid arithmetic lead us astray to the idea of many gods.’

Basil the great, On The Holy Spirit, (New York: St Vladimir’s seminary Press, 1980), para 44.

No need to say much about the content of yesterday’s statement of apology and repentance issued by the Council of the Baptist Union of Great Britain. It is an acknowledgement of our inevitable implication in all the chapters of our story, including the tragic story of Britain and the slave trade. As a Scot whose country and society benefited financially from trafficking in human beings I want to identify entirely and without reservation with the words carefully chosen and humbly offered.

So instead of any paraphrase or precis I can offer, you can read the full text at the Baptist union of Great Britain website. It is a document framed in the values of the Kingdom of God.

Each human life is unique and precious. Every human being embodies an entire universe of possibility, potential and value.

Catherine Corbett, a young police woman is run down in a hit and run incident as she was trying to arrest people suspected of fraud. Fraud is about dishonest gain, cheating others for something that could never balance the loss of a human life, or the crushing of human possibility.

One fire fighter is dead and three others missing in the aftermath of a huge fire almost certainly an act of arson. The act of fire-raising is intentionally destructive, whether from stupidity or malice, but either way it endangers human life unnecessarily, at times with tragic consequences.

There is a bleak nihilism laced through the substance of our society. It manifests itself in a failure of moral imagination, that capacity to envisage the human consequences of actions, so that restraint, accountability, compassionate responsibility, the essential public duty of valuing and protecting life, simply do not register on the moral radar. The tragic irony is that those people who serve the public, like our police force and the fire service, who put themselves in the way of harm to protect the public and preserve human life, by doing so demonstrate precisely those qualities of moral imagination – holding themselves accountable, showing compassionate responsibility for others, acting out of public duty. They are too little valued in a society too easily taken in by the superfluous, the trivial, the transitory, the self serving, the greedy grabbing for advantage – and a society too neglectful of those who, while also part of that same society, have made a vocation of caring about precisely those human consequences of other people’s actions.

Tonight I pray for those whose sense of pride in the courage and conduct of their loved ones, only slightly lessens the leaden weight of loss. May they know the comfort of God, whatever that might mean for each of them

Tonight I pray for those whose actions have led to the loss of lives, and the breaking of human bodies. May they recover that moral imagination essential to personal moral responsibility; and then may their remorse open them to the possibility of restorative justice and a future in which one of the consequences of their past actions might be future acts of recreative hope.

Early in the morning, before the sun was risen, I went out for a slow jog in the drizzle…which like God’s love falls on the righteous, and thankfully, on the unrighteous

Early in the morning, before the sun was risen, they came to the place where Jesus lay…He is not here, He is risen. Indeed!

Early in the morning O Lord you hear my voice, in the morning I lay my requests before you, and wait in expectation. (Ps.5.3)

His compassions never fail  they are new every morning. (Lam 3.23)

Slowly jogging past the neighbours’ houses, not a prayer jog, not a hint of  ‘claiming the territory’, but as the drizzle slowly seeps into the sweatshirt, and cools both my face and the shiny dome above it, so may God’s blessing fall as drizzle on the roofs of these houses, and seep into the lives of those still sleeping, or just waking.

And I jog quietly, because as Proverbs 27.14 says

If a man loudly blesses his neighbour early in the morning,

it will be taken for a curse.

So I’m learning to jog quietly and pray inwardly!

 Silverburn Shopping Centre.

95 stores over half a mile.

18 Restaurants.

3,000 staff, many sourced locally.

2,500 parking spaces.

1,000,000 square feet of prime retail and leisure space.

13 times the size of Hampden football pitch.

This is a massive retail cathedral, complete with liturgy, clergy, sacred music, architectural beauty, familiar rituals and symbols, and an all but tangible sense of people’s devotion to what’s on offer. This is new Jerusalem, centre of hope, renewal, personal fulfilment. The elements of a secular religious activity and devotion are unmistakable.

Exaggeration? My biblical literary allusions getting the better of me? The feel-good factor of a new shopping mall unrelated to religious fulfilment?

Here are two of the massive blue advertising banners,(at least 5×4 Metres), hanging outside retailers whose shops are yet to open but coming soon.

There shall be sorrow no more, for Heaven has sent us Carphone Warehouse!

Paradise is upon us, for J D Sports is coming soon.

More than 30 of these banners have similar texts for the faithful, encouraging us to remain hopeful that in due time, ‘all shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well’. Though when Julian of Norwich originally wrote these things she wasn’t meaning we would be able to buy all manner of thing on credit, in a glass cathedral, with adequate parking, multi-choice restaurant options, and a sense of being blessed by shopping for all manner of thing.

The message is both subtle and seductive. Heaven approves retail therapy; ideas and questions about consumer overload, or responsible credit use, are heresies best avoided. The inner restlessness, those gnawing hungers of the heart, have their Silverburn spiritual answer, with apologies to St Augustine,’You have made things for ourselves, and our hearts are restless till they rest in you, spent and satisfied’.

The sorrow of emptiness, of lack, of deprivation because what I want is not yet available, well my tears may last for a night, but joy comes in the morning when Carphone Warehouse opens. And for those who enjoy a religion that provides a sense of imminence, of immediacy, of God breaking into otherwise lacklustre lives – Paradise is upon us! And I will, yes I will, be able to look at, handle, long for, and yes, praise be, purchase, my own personal, identity conferring, spiritually fulfilling, trainers at J D Sports. Paradise!

All of which said – I was so heartened to see so many people clearly newly in jobs, learning the ropes of retail customer service, trying hard and glad of a chance in life. That, I will never knock! You can see some of them over here at the Evening Times. And yes, it is cutting edge in the technology that reduces the carbon footprint so that M&S is powered by their own wind turbine in Aberdeenshire, and emits 95% less CO2 than a similar sized traditional store, and uses rainwater for flushing toilets. So a lot that’s good – but shopping isn’t an experience that fulfils our ‘ultimate concern’, the new trainers don’t quite reveal the utterly transcendent, and for all we might depend on our mobile phones, our deepest sorrows in life are unlikely to be the delay in the coming of Carphone Warehouse!

  A visit to The Museum of Scottish Country Life was a journey back in time to my first 16 years of life in the 50’s and 60’s. I lived in rural Ayrshire and Lanarkshire and spent my growing up years on farms, where my father was a dairyman. I found myself looking at farm implements now consigned to a museum, that I used to handle, and used to earn pocket money during the summer holidays. I recognised and knew the names of such exotic implements as harrowers, grubbers, reapers and binders, mole-traps, turnip chippers, sheep shearing scissors; and watching a video of milking in the 1950’s – something I used to help my dad with when I was 10, and before I went on the school bus!

  The Y shaped scythe was nearly as big as me and I was paid 2/6d (12 and a half pence!) a day to cut down the profusion of thistles in the fields where the dairy herd grazed. The draining spade, with its enormous left hand blade, I used to jump on when I was small and allegedly helping my dad re-cut the draining ditches of the silage fields.

The milking apparatus, complete with four chrome cups lined with Alfa Laval rubber sheaths, a pulsator, a rubber can gasket and a hose for fitting to the vacuum pump – I remember helping to do the milking, pasteurising the milk, sterilising the equipment, mucking the byre and hosing it all down on a daily basis. I could assemble the milking equipment with its complicated network of hoses and fittings with practised ease by the time I was 10.

I was driving a tractor in the fields by age 12, and in the various farms became familiar with several makes of tractor – all of which I saw at the Museum of Scottish Country Life. The David Brown (always called the Davie Broon, first picture above), the Massey Ferguson which was the regular mechanical work-horse, the Nuffield which was a big brute of a thing, and the impressively new Fordson Major, (pictured here) which for a while the farmer didn’t let anyone drive but himself!

You can follow the history of the plough – from single blade drawn by horses, to early tractor drawn triple bladed, all the way through to the modern left foot, right foot, multi-bladed swivel versions. An important family picture shows my dad using the horse drawn plough. I’ve posted it again just as a piece of personal indulgence – and because it captures formative years in the development of my own values, my view of working people and of work, of money and what it costs to make a living by the labour of human hands, and my admiration for the sheer tenacity of those who worked the land when mostly what was available was their own resilience, stamina, and yes, pride in their work. My favourite passage in the Wisdom of Sirach pays tribute to farm labourers like my dad:

He sets his heart on ploughing straight furrows,

and he is careful about fodder for the cattle.

Sirach, ch.38.26

That sums up my dad’s work-ethic – in my best moments I hope something of that pride in doing the routine things well, and doing an honest day’s work is genetically transferable. And I also wonder what an honest day’s work is worth for a man who worked up to 80 hours a week – more than the meagre pay-packet he brought home – always, but always, unopened!

I’ve always made space in my life to gaze on icons. And yes the word iconic is overused. And yes, too, the word icon means more than something you click on, or the latest everybody wants to see celebrity. But now and again I succumb to popular cultural pressures.

  James McFadden is an icon! That goal in France gave me one of the greatest fottballing moments of a getting quite long life. And now today he made the first goal, scored the third.

Scotland 3 – Ukraine 1

This morning I was in Glasgow and encountered numerous clan representatives of the Tartan Army claiming the city centre in a benevolent invasion. Straight out of central station, into Greggs for the sausage rolls, scotch pies and at least one largeish mince round, then out they came, wearing off the shoulder Lions Rampant, waving the saltire, singing traditional Scottish tunes with radically modified lyrics. In Starbucks there were more sporrans than handbags; up and down Buchanan Street the buskers were competing with the spontaneous entertainment from the infantry recently arrived via Queen Street. Several happy and bemused Ukrainian fans were having photos taken with mobile phones, good natured and generous Scottish supporters draped around them (sharing the mince rounds). This is international football at its best before the ball is even kicked.

  Earlier I had been in Borders and they had a classic Bob Dylan CD playing. Dylan’s voice, grating and soulfull, singing songs I’ve known for decades….and then the one that always makes me want to sit down and listen, ‘Blowin in the Wind’. Having posted last night to express my sadness and protest at the events in Iraq, I listened to a song that since I was a teenager says what I feel most deeply about our human capacity to wound and kill each other. As Dylan prayed out his questions, I waited for that  plaintive interrogative mouth organ, and then heard the question that brought tears to my eyes,

How many times must a man look up
Before he can see the sky?
Yes, ‘n’ how many ears must one man have
Before he can hear people cry?
Yes, ‘n’ how many deaths will it take till he knows
That too many people have died?
The answer, my friend, is blowin’ in the wind,
The answer is blowin’ in the wind.

I realised that this too, is sacred music; this is the voice of the prophet, asking the question that lies deep in the heart of every human being whose dignity and value should never be erased by the unilateral say so of the powerful. And when it is, other human beings hear people cry, and protest and make it their calling to call power to account, to name evil, and to stand up for humanity – because as a follower of Jesus, I believe each human being is iconic, made in the image of God, valued and loved beyond any calculation I can make.

So on a day when our country won a football match, and I am as daft as any other Scottish supporter, I celebrate not only the win, but the image of Scottish and Ukrainian fans outside Borders, leaping across barriers of culture language and nation, sharing food and having fun – and Dylan’s great hopeful, prayerful series of questions re-echo within, and I listen for the wind of the Spirit blowing across our world, the go-between God, and I hope.

Mixed experiences on my jaunt to Musselburgh to do my talk on Evangelical Spirituality on behalf of the Diocese of Edinburgh. From Paisley to Queen Street, 23 minutes. But the 3.30 and the 3.45 to Edinburgh were cancelled due to the failure the points system somewhere ( the announcement said where – but it was indecipherable, and in any case I didn’t need to know where they failed, just that that they had). So I waited with moderate displays of patience for the 4.00 p.m. "express" to Edinburgh – got on and it left on time. But once we were ensnared in the carriage, and five minutes out of Glasgow, it was announced that the train would divert to Dalmeny, and this would add a further 20-30 minutes to the journey.

There is a tangible sense of annoyed resignation ripples through the carriages when such morale deflating announcement is made. One passenger who wasn’t prepared to allow resignation to temper annoyance, was half way through ( at a conservative guess) his umpteenth can of Strongbow. He was already complaining to everyone that he wanted to go to Glasgow not Edinburgh – no he wasn’t on the wrong train, the train was going to the wrong place. He needed to go to Glasgow because he was going to Dublin, to see his sister, who wanted to give him some verbal because he was drunk…..

It was a long journey, and I struggled to read my book on Anselm. I suppose Scotrail, Strongbow and the Ontological argument are a reasonable challenge to those creative thinkers who can always make connections. The train confused our inebriated Robert Carlyle lookalike in shades so much he decided to use his compromised gifts of rhetoric getting us all onside to complain. Not helped when the train stopped, then began to travel back the way it came, in reverse. Maybe we were going back to Glasgow – but no, this was a train doing the equivalent of a three point turn – at 5.25 we got into Waverely.

From there I went down to Leith to pick up my car which Aileen had used for her holiday. Walking towards her house, dressed in my suit and carrying my brief case, a small elderly woman, stopped me and said,

‘Oh hello, is that you Dr Stewart.’

I said no – and she was clearly disappointed, but went on to tell me anyway, ‘Well’, she said, ‘it’s just that you prescribed the wrong pills for me’.

I explained I wasn’t Dr Stewart, she squinted into my face, smiled, and it dawned on her I was right, she apologised, and went on her way.

After that, drove to Musselburgh, did my talk, enjoyed the company of the folk and drove home to get in just before 11.00pm.

I am still trying to work out what theological reflections, spiritual lessons, human insights, arise from such a day…… Suggestions……

One of my bestest friends phoned the College today to ask if I was alright because I missed a day on my blog! I love it when people miss me – makes me feel wanted. And if they miss me on my blog then I am even more affirmed. I’m pleased to say I’m fine. Busy with the stuff that needs to be done in the administrative nether worlds of academia these days – but we all have our routines and tedium which is part of training in patience, attention to detail, and just sheer faithfulness to our vocational commitments. That’s true whether you are a nurse or a scaffolder, a cook or a taxi driver, a blacksmith or a goldsmith, a social worker or a computer analyst, a cleaner or a mathematician, checking out items at the supermarket or checking in baggage at the airport, whether you’re a brain surgeon or a tree surgeon.

In the Wisdom of Sirach, are words that speak about the importance of the ordinary, the consecration of routine, the faithfulness of those who just do it… they are words that have often been my own inspiration when what has to be done isn’t fun, but it is necessary, and when the payoff is perhaps only what St Ignatius prayed at the end of his prayer, "..not to ask for any reward, save that of doing thy will". And with that to be content – Here’s Sirach, a wise man

25. How can he become wise who handles the plow, and who glories in the shaft of a goad, who drives oxen and is occupied with their work, and whose talk is about bulls?

26. He sets his heart on plowing furrows, and he is careful about fodder for the heifers.

27. So too is every craftsman and master workman who labors by night as well as by day; those who cut the signets of seals, each is diligent in making a great variety; he sets his heart on painting a lifelike image, and he is careful to finish his work.

28. So too is the smith sitting by the anvil, intent upon his handiwork in iron; the breath of the fire melts his flesh,

and he wastes away in the heat of the furnace;

he inclines his ear to the sound of the hammer, and his eyes are on the pattern of the object.

He sets his heart on finishing his handiwork, and he is careful to complete its decoration.

29. So too is the potter sitting at his work and turning the wheel with his feet; he is always deeply concerned over his work, and all his output is by number.

30. He moulds the clay with his arm and makes it pliable with his feet; he sets his heart to finish the glazing, and he is careful to clean the furnace.

31. All these rely upon their hands, and each is skilful in his own work.

32. Without them a city cannot be established, and men can neither sojourn nor live there.

33. Yet they are not sought out for the council of the people, nor do they attain eminence in the public assembly. They do not sit in the judge’s seat, nor do they understand the sentence of judgment; they cannot expound discipline or judgment, and they are not found using proverbs.

34. But they keep stable the fabric of the world, and their prayer is in the practice of their trade.

And by the way – my friend who checks up on absentee bloggers is also one of those who keeps stable the fabric of the world.