We had no work party this morning so I had a leisurely start with my usual breakfast, followed by brunch at the bungalow. Once dishes were done I had to force myself to go out but, once forced, I was glad for it. I figured it was about time I climbed a mountain (at 698m some would call it a hill). So I did. As you can see I chose the nearest one to home. Even so the return trip was 16.17 miles, barefoot of course, average speed moving a mere 4.55mph (lots of hills) and elevation gain 784m. Here are some photos I took so you can get the atmosphere without having to retrace my steps.
All manner of atrocities have been committed in the name of religion. Their perpetrators earnestly believed they were acting on God's behalf. Like Paul. And there's the crunch. We are taught that we need to hear the voice of God and obey it. But of this "hearing"... some say like "I felt God was telling me to..." and I wonder are they really hearing God's voice? What if one party earnestly believes God is saying X and another party Y and X and Y are major issues and mutually exclusive? Is this how splits and new denominations happen in the church? There are rather generous estimates of up to 43,000 denominations within perhaps 40 main variations. Which gives the new convert plenty of choice. So does it matter what you believe?
If the deep outer veneers of difference are scraped off, what core value, common vision is there that defines a true Christian? Like the simplicity of Peter's "Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved, and thy house".
I was pleasantly surprised to find this discussion of what it means to be a Christian on the BBC site - surprised because my son-in-law eschews the BBC considering it to be very biased. The site says "It's about a friendship - a friendship with Jesus Christ." But what does it mean to have a friendship with someone that cannot be sensed in the usual way? I am reminded of Chocky who, in the story, is thought to be a childhood invention but turns out to be real. And here is my conundrum: those seemingly more stable Christians with whom I fellowship will claim that they do have a friendship with Jesus, that they hear Him speaking to them, feel His presence, and so on. I've thought I did but now I am not so sure. Don't get me wrong - I love the concept, so aptly portrayed in the Narnia books, like But no one except Lucy knew that as it circled the mast it had whispered to her, "Courage, dear heart," and the voice, she felt sure, was Aslan's, and with the voice a delicious smell breathed in her face and I long for such an experience in my own life, a longing that is as close to "faith" as I can muster. Or maybe, horrors, my spirit has somehow grown cold like the dwarfs within the stable in The Last Battle.
On the other hand I've seen some pretty amazing things that I can put down to the hand of God. That I got married at all, let alone to an amazing woman and with resulting four amazing children. Even my closest friends at the time agreed it was an unlikely thing to happen. And more recently, after waiting in hope for so many years, J and S's adoption of a Thai child happening so fast and at such a time that one could not help comparing it with Joseph's sudden rise to second only to Pharoah. Or when I open my eyes and see creation in all its detail.
But I, being human, need constant reassurance of things unseen. Working on some scaffolding the other day I cantilevered a plank to help me reach, making the other end fast by a G-clamp to the scaffolding tower. It looked good. My knowledge of levers confirmed my observation. And yet still I very cautiously committed my weight to the projecting end of the plank. I needed more assurance than physics theory offered. And I need more assurance than Christian doctrine offers.
A recent visitor alluded to numerical patterns or "gematria" found in the scriptures, for example as purported by Vernon Jenkins with his 37 x 73 argument. This is all very fascinating but at the same time I am cautious. Many of the patterns only work in base 10 as this site observes, but then one might argue that the decimal system is God given because He gave our hands and feet 10 digits. And does Vernon also believe that the Earth is flat or is at least the centre of the universe?
Another guy came up with the Bible Wheel but has more recently debunked his own theory and now no longer calls himself a Christian. I followed this story because it is unusual for a theorist to publically recant. Without reading every word it seems that he fell into that trap of emphasising data that supported his theory whilst disregarding the rest. Commonly known as a biased sample. I think Christians are wonderfully good at this - wonderfully because it takes some guts, some perseverance and commitment, to persistently believe one thing when so much evidence points another way.
And thus Paul argues in the book of Romans: for what can be known about God is plain to them [unbelievers], because God has shown it to them. For his invisible attributes, namely, his eternal power and divine nature, have been clearly perceived, ever since the creation of the world, in the things that have been made. So they are without excuse. For although they knew God, they did not honor him as God or give thanks to him, but they became futile in their thinking, and their foolish hearts were darkened. Claiming to be wise, they became fools. Doubtless Richard Dawkins would not agree. If I had to choose between him and Paul I'd choose the latter any day, but still I find Paul's argument curiously hollow. Conversely the anthropic principle says the world is as it is (all those physical constants having just the right value to sustain life as we know it and all that) because here we are to prove it, and this also seems to me a hollow argument lacking substance.
In all these musings I find myself coming back to the man Jesus and his claims of deity as recorded in the Gospels. But that was a long time ago and, like Trumpkin the dwarf, I find myself thinking "Do you believe all those old stories?" and "But who believes in Aslan nowadays?". In this story Trumpkin's unbelief mercifully ends with "Son of Earth, shall we be friends?". Maybe that was just the author's fancy.
At present we have these two kettles in our kitchen. The one on the right has perhaps lasted the longest of all the many kettles we have got through over the years. I have nursed it through several minor faults. It doesn't burn you when you pour (unlike the other one). It pours nicely (unlike the other one). It doesn't leak (unlike several of its predecessors). It is very obvious when it comes to the boil (unlike the other one). It is a pleasing shape (unlike the other one). In short it is a very friendly kettle and I like it and I use it every morning and at other times for my tea in preference to the other one. And yet They want to retire it, to replace it. If this happens I shall of course whisk it away to a save haven before anyone can trash it. Maybe I'll be forced to take my tea elsewhere. Or maybe I will in due course give up and follow the status quo and get myself used to its replacement. And thus progress is made.
Yesterday I overheard my wife extolling my self control at being able to open a bar of chocolate, eat a few squares, and then return it to the draw for another day. I hasten to add that my self control is not as good as she claimed.
I may have inherited the chocolate deal from my father. As a child I was amazed at how he could keep an easter egg unfinished until the next Easter. He had a special cupboard in his bedroom under the stairs leading to the loft - it was strictly out of bounds although I did manage to fleetingly see the interior a few times. His box of Meccano was kept here (I now have this relic) and, joy of joys, various tin-plate O-gauge locomotives and rolling stock. Was it here that he kept his cache of unconsumed chocolate?
My daughter (and oh-the-delight-of-my-eyes) gave me 10 small bars (the sort that used to cost 6d when I was a boy) of Irish Cadburys Dairy Milk (CDM) on my birthday - this was several years ago - and I am eating the last bar at the moment. Even way past its sell-by date it still tastes supreme. By "eating" I mean I had a few squares yesterday and the rest is awaiting a suitable opportunity in my bedside cabinet. You may wonder why all times are not suitable for eating chocolate. The reason is maybe because I live in community. If you bring chocolate to the communal lounge (some do, I even have myself on rare occasions) it sort of vanishes. You end up with maybe one square if you're lucky. There again it seems antisocial to disappear to one's bedroom to consume the stuff without the-help-of-others. Such are the joys of community.
Without doubt Irish CDM is superior to the UK equivalent. My daughter in law recently arranged a blind taste test and I correctly identified the Irish one. At one time you could tell the difference by the colour of the foil wrapping, whether gold (Irish) or purple (UK), but with modern wrapping the only clue is the small print saying where the bar was manufactured. Cadburys online are cagey about any difference claiming the recipe is the same but the milk is local so could contribute a difference. And of course Cadburys has been taken over by Mondelez so who knows what effect that change has made on the product.
Here are two responses to my querying the subject with the manufacturer:
email received Jan 2016 The Irish business is expert in manufacturing Cadbury chocolate tablets, Flake, wafer and extruded chocolate products. Our range of Irish made products includes; 8-square Cadbury Dairy Milk, Turkish, Tiffin, Golden Crisp, Mint Crisp, Wholenut, Fruit & Nut, Caramello, as well as; Time Out, Snack Wafer, Moro, Flake, Flake 99, Twirl, Twirl Bites and Miniature Hero units. There are no plans to change any recipes or processes in Coolock.
email received Dec 2018 You can check which Cadbury products are made in Ireland by looking at the packaging for our products. Our packaging will include a batch code beside the best before date which begins with three letters. For example, our Coolock Factory products begin with OCO. I hope this information helps and if you have any further questions please do contact us again.
Neither of which says anything about the special taste of the Irish product.
At the "duty-free" shopping area at Dublin airport you can purchase CDM in various sized bars but recently I was unable to find a single bar made in Ireland. I queried this with one of the store keepers suggesting that surely at Dublin airport of all places they would want to promote the local product - the sales person looked at me with incomprehension and as though I were mad. And here in the community folk at least know about my fetish but as far as I know no one shares my views. Which is all very strange.
Some pictures from our February visit to Ali's mum. This time she was not feeling 100% and not up to her usual visits to cake and coffee shops. Which meant that I had the chance to explore Taunton during Ali's shopping trip there, rather than navigate her mum's wheelchair around a preset circuit of shops. Click on an image to enlarge it.
Early morning mists near Bradfield
The same
The same
Weir on River Culm near Willand
Sunset near Meadow Park, Willand
Exploring Taunton of course meant exploring the interesting parts namely the river, canal and railway. I left plenty of scope for more exploration on my next visit! The riverside walk was a particular winner.
Outward run along riverside walk by River Tone, Taunton
Each year I winter in a cottage near the Sally Gap road. It has no mains water or electricity. I burn peat to cook with and to stave off the cold and damp, and survive on rations I get by bicycle from Blessington every week. A small solar panel charges my cell-phone with which I keep occasional contact with the rest of my family. As summer approaches and the days get longer and warmer my feet get more and more itchy until I make the break. I load my bicycle panniers with tent, camping stove, basic dry provisions (rice, beans, flour, loose tea) and oil, lock up my cottage, and set off for the secret valley. Naturally the names on my map are not the real names - I have no desire to share my valley. I generally follow the river to a south facing grassy area between the small lake and Fern Forest, where I pitch my tent. At the end of the previous year I hide some heavier articles - a spade, some cooking utensils and the like - and find they are still intact. And thus I enjoy the summer months in solitude shared only with nature and the very occasional hiker.
Would I? Could I? The map is in fact a floor tile in the bathroom here, which I study with fond imagination every time I visit for a number two, a sort of loo-doodle.
Somehow as a child I missed the Swallows and Amazons series of books by Arthur Ransome. Looking for something easy to read I found a couple on the school bookshelf and instantly fell in love with them.
That some of the characters are based on real people and the location is based on a real place in the English Lake District, together with Ransome's obvious love of childhood (including his own) perhaps explains the refreshing reality in the stories. He portrays the action so well from the children's viewpoint. Also refreshing is the relative freedom given to the children (the eldest is only 12 in the first book). Whilst their mother is rightly protective, the children are allowed to camp, trek and sail (without life jackets, but they can all swim) over considerable distances without Adult presence. Sadly we live in a different world today.
I too enjoyed my childhood, what I can remember of it. Of course there were less enjoyable parts like sport at school and having to clean my Sunday best shoes, but in the main I think I must have been very blessed. Compared with some of the kids in the infant school my daughter is running in Kenya.
Having started reading this book I am reminded of a David and Goliath moment in my business. Way back (before the year 2000) I had been subcontracted by a company X started by Craig Johnston to design the electronic communications for his automatic hotel minibar invention. The mechanical design was subcontracted to another company M which was an established industrial design house. The software to co-ordinate the minibars and charge the customer's account when a drink was removed was subcontracted to an established London software house S. Both M and S had teams working on the project whereas I was a sole trader. It soon became apparent that M also had interests in the electronics when they tried to exclude me. Meanwhile S appeared to be getting on well but when it came to demonstrating their software it had nice graphics but was clearly functionally not fit for purpose.
I took a David chance. I confronted M's manager telling him his electronics proposal was flawed but he didn't accept my judgement. I also did some hard thinking about S's software issues. As a result I approached my boss, the manager of X, warning him of M's flawed electronics proposal explaining that my design would work better and be cheaper. And I offered to write software that would both be completed in advance of and out-perform S's. X hired an independent consultant to appraise my claims which were exonerated and I duly carried out my proposals within the agreed timescale. The resulting electronics and software were wholly satisfactory and faithfully ran the Butler system for many years.
Regrettably, after a number of years, the company X ceased trading when orders were lost when the UK and Ireland hotel trade suffered following the foot and mouth outbreak in 2001. Craig's apparent claim that he patented the design and now says between 15,000 and 20,000 Butlers have been sold must be exaggeration - I could believe in excess of 5,000 minibars with systems in perhaps 30 hotels throughout the UK and Ireland.
A few miles from us there is a castle called Three Castles. The name is thought to be because this is the last remaining one of three: a second is visible on a historic map, the third is a mystery.
Three Lakes
A few more miles and in the Wicklow Mountains is Three Lakes which, we are told, is a lake, although in fact there is a second smaller lake close by. But not three.
Denomination: a religious group that has slightly different beliefs from other groups that share the same religion. On that basis the church I go to, and a few others worldwide that are loosely connected, constitute a denomination. Except that they claim they are not denominational. The same argument might apply to the church my parents took me to as a child. And both claim to be the bees knees when it comes to doctrine - although at least one must be wrong.
What is 'different' about the church I go to is that it is "third feast" (as opposed to "third wave") as in the three feast periods mentioned in the Old Testament which loosely equate to the initial salvation experience (Passover), baptism in the Spirit (Pentecost) and going on to perfection (Tabernacles). This is of course a very simplistic summary. Perfection is not a new idea - John Wesley and all Methodists who adhere to his doctrine advocate it. Exactly what is meant by perfection is another thing. Some have claimed that, on reaching "perfection" they would in this life live forever, although I have not yet noticed anyone doing this. And anyway there is something decidedly fishy about claiming oneself is perfect.
It's not that I disagree with the third feast idea. For one thing it sets a vision of holiness (perfection) to which one can at least aspire even if without divine help it is humanly impossible. But I've heard this preaching for around 40 years and do not see a corresponding amount of progress. Not in my life anyway. Whilst a believer can and doubtless should experience the first two, the third remains obstinately in the future. And yet I want to go on, to become better, I want it to have been true that I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith.
Long ago, when we were living in London, I remember there was teaching in our group on likening our Christian journey to the children of Israel travelling from Egypt (code-name for the world system) to the promised land. This teaching continued over many weeks and then one day the preacher reckoned we were actually entering the promised land. But nothing that I noticed had changed, and it left me anticlimactic, like, what next? It also taught me not to trust preachers.
Presently the little door on my right opened and a woman, a peasant, came in... She looked as if she had cried all night, and in her hands she held a live pigeon. One of the lesser priests came forward at once, took the tiny offering from her, slit it open with his stone knife, splashed the little shower of blood over Ungit... The peasant woman sank down on her face at Ungit's feet. She lay there a very long time, so shaking that anyone could tell how bitterly she wept. But the weeping ceased. She rose up on her knees and put back her hair from her face and took a long breath... "Has Ungit comforted you, child?" I asked. "Oh yes, Queen," said the woman, her face almost brightening, "Oh yes. Ungit has given me great comfort. There's no goddess like Ungit." "Do you always pray to that Ungit," said I (nodding toward the shapeless stone), "and not to that?" Here I nodded towards our new image, standing tall and straight in her robes and (whatever the Fox might say of it) the loveliest thing our land has ever seen. "Oh, always this, Queen," said she. "That other, the Greek Ungit, she wouldn't understand my speech. She's only for nobles and learned men. There's no comfort in her."
Lewis's Till we have Faces is his most pertinent fiction. If you, his reader, do not immediately identify with Orual's introversion then you're made of sterner stuff than I am. As usual in his fiction, Lewis wisely leaves it to the reader to elaborate. We cannot tell if the comfort this peasant woman gained was real or just a product of her sub-conscience but, either way, the new fangled, painted, Greek image of Ungit didn't do the trick. And maybe new fangled teaching isn't working for me apart from some small admiration for its colourful paintwork. I'll be denounced heretical for this admission no doubt. Perhaps my problem is unbelief, of which the Bible has many negative things to say. But I have tried to believe - help thou my unbelief.
Save me, O God! For the waters have come up to my neck. I sink in deep mire, where there is no foothold; I have come into deep waters, and the flood sweeps over me. I am weary with my crying out; my throat is parched. My eyes grow dim with waiting for my God.
In the field of dynamical systems an attractor is a set of numerical values toward which a system tends to evolve, so says Wikipedia. An example is the lowest point of a damped, swinging pendulum to which the pendulum gravitates.
I've noticed during my barefoot runs (on the road), that the probability of vehicles converging from opposite directions and wanting to pass just where I am, sometimes causing me to jump onto the verge and take what thistles, brambles and stinging nettles come my way, seems to be higher than statistics should predict. Thus it appears as if I'm an attractor. Of vehicles.
This lunch time I wanted to go into the kitchen - there are two doorways between our dining area and kitchen. I headed for the nearest one and found two women nattering and blocking the doorway. As this is a frequent occurrence I simply went towards the other door but, lo and behold, another knot of the female variety were blocking that one too. I considered the long way of going outside and trying to enter by the kitchen's outside door but thankfully the knot rearranged itself sufficiently for me, carrying my stack of dirty dishes, to squeeze past. It appears therefore that doorways are attractors. Of women.
Not wishing to be unduly sexist, for all I know it may be (although I have not observed it) that men also like to talk in doorways but that it is a less common occurrence because, generally, men natter less than women.
Several years back the road past the Ardenode hotel was closed because a bridge over a stream had collapsed - it stayed closed for well over a year I suppose whilst the council were figuring out who should pay for the repair.
Another road close by, from Ballymore past Coughlanstown to Carnalway cross, has likewise been closed for well over a year and is still closed. Having attempted but failed to return this way a while back I decided to cycle to Ballymore to find out why. The road climbs a small ridge between a disbanded quarry and an acute bend in the river Liffey. My surmise is that the river is eating its way into this ridge and making it unstable and that is why the road is closed. I parked my bike at the barrier on the right, and walked up from there and found a small landslide marked in yellow on my map.
Doubtless the council don't want to spend the considerable expense of making this safe and so the road remains closed - stalemate.
Barriers shown in red, landslide in yellow
Barrier and bike
The landslide with river Liffy on the left
The road is just to the right
Nothing obvious - but the landslide is just to the left
I woke up at my habitual 6 am, turned over in disgust and slept another hour or so. Then lit the boiler and went for my habitual constitutional just over 4 miles. Then a small breakfast before checking up on social media and showering before the first big event of the day, brunch with C&L and my granddaughters three...
The next major event of the day was scheduled for 1630 so I had some time to myself. Why not prove that I can still climb Church Mountain? So I did. Barefoot of course. The temperature was mild, around 10'C. Unfortunately the summit was in the cloud (which now-a-days is considered cool).
My track below, same as my usual, 14.6 miles, elevation gain 600m (max elevation 542m).
A by-product was working up an appetite for dinner, although I noted Others eating more who hadn't run that far. Whilst writing this I have topped up with Nora's exceeding good Christmas Cake and frankly my tanks are full.
The route to the pass starts a s a road
Then becomes a track: looking back towards my lake
I am tired of living a lie. But I am not even sure what the lie is or whether it really is a lie - I know it is something to do with these trappings we bolt onto basic Christianity. It started in my parents' open-brethren-cum-evangelical church, with the weekly "gospel service", door-to-door evangelism, the implied exclusiveness "we have a corner on Truth". Whilst I knew no better, even then some things didn't sit well with me. Like a special evangelistic weekend to which we were encouraged to invite our non-Christian friends to (then what were the weekly gospel meetings for?). Discussion as to whether an elder's son-in-law-to-be should be allowed to "break bread" because he came from a pentecostal church. Warnings about those who claimed God healed now-a-days, or warnings about the new vein of charismatic Christian songs that were effectively quotes from scripture. The implication that other denominations were, at best, inferior - or more likely plain deceived. Strong but opposing arguments about perspectives on eschatology. Women having to wear a hat and the question of exactly what constituted "a hat". Women not being allowed to speak in meetings (except for women's only meetings). In spite of all these quandaries it was probably the most Bible based church in the neighbourhood and I still miss the breaking of bread service (or I like to think I do, for I've not gone back to see).
Don't get me wrong - those folk meant well and I have been blessed beyond all that I deserve in being born in a free country to God fearing parents, as a child attending a Bible believing church, freely receiving a good education...
I've noted before of my church experiences in Oxford and, on moving to London, the "Friday Fellowship" that evolved from youngsters wanting "more of God" than they saw in the local Baptist church. A group in which Ali and I and another couple assumed de facto leadership. And teaching we received on the Baptism in the Spirit and on Speaking In Tongues, etc.
I look back with mingled horror at the way I harshly ploughed ahead cognisant of but not acting on my parents' warnings, thinking I was following God rather than man. Something I have since done in other circumstances and called it faith [see note]. We sold the house that my parents had helped us renovate, pooled funds with this other couple to purchase a larger property where we could live together In Community. I gave up my secure job with the BBC and became self-employed doing odd-jobbing building. We started to home-school our kids. All this in what we believed was a direction God had given us. And I still believe this, but faith can sometimes be tenuous.
My worried parents wrote to us. Not being sentimental I do not as a rule stash letters, but this one I have kept all these 37 years because I recognised its wisdom and truth even then as I still do today: here are some extracts which I think they would not have minded me sharing in retrospect [my emphasis and ellipses].
Although there is much in your fellowship that is good, and loving, and caring, admit you have a bias towards the gifts of the Spirit. And that there is part that is emotionally motivated... All this we believe in and do not condemn... Do beware, both of you, because God has given you common-sense also, beware of anything that is not real, because this intense atmosphere of sharing, can lead in time to disillusionment. We are still, and shall be until we are finally redeemed, human beings, subject to human failings. These things you take part in, can lead to splits among brothers and sisters in Christ, lack of security because you have lack of time to be alone with your immediate family. It can even lead to marriage breakdowns, and also physical and mental breakdowns. Just try to keep a right perspective, or you may have to pick up the pieces of a broken relationship.
Later a group of us moved to Northern Ireland to join an established Christian community there, and squandered all our funds therewith. During this period Ali and I were demoted from leadership for reasons which evade me. And we watched as that community went bad and started to fall apart, and a group of us left en-masse before it was too late, but penniless.
By a miraculous coincidence the property we now live in was purchased using funds left in trust "for Christian work". When we moved in, there was hardly any heating and it was a bitter winter, but we were happy enough just to be free from the oppression and nonsense of that former community. We started a window cleaning business and the pittance we earned was enough to purchase basic food: the locals whose windows we cleaned were bemused at English folk cleaning Irish windows mid winter. Hard graft and a common vision to survive, and what we believe was the blessing of God, brought us to where we are now, with money in our pockets and enough reserve over the years to have paid outright for various extensions and renovations to our property without getting in debt. And today, all things considered, as community inmates go we are very well off thank you. But prosperity breeds contempt and contempt can lead to destruction.
On the stairs I passed a younger family heading bed-ward the other evening: child "Does God speak to us?" - mother "Yes of course he does" - child (gazing up at the ceiling) "Hello?.... no he doesn't".
There is a key to my disillusionment in my parents' beware of anything that is not real. In my life I have seen plenty of unreal nonsense in the name of God but not so much reality. Repeatedly I have asked God to make himself real / tangible to me. I am taught that I should have a "personal relationship" with the Lord but, if so, it seems very one way: I talk to him, period. Yes there have been times when I believe God has led me in a particular way, but these instances are the exception. In our little group I'm nominally a leader but I cannot preach, I'm not sociable, I hate confrontation rarely being sure enough of my own position to challenge that of others. My mother told me I was stubborn and this might be my sole redeeming feature - or is it damning?
If life is but a dream then anything goes. But otherwise there must be something that makes the distinction: like pinching oneself - although I've done that in dreams and it did hurt so I surmised it was real and then I woke up. Two disciples walking from Jerusalem to Emmaus discussing rumours circulating after the crucifixion, later observed "Did not our hearts burn within us while he talked to us on the road, while he opened to us the Scriptures?"
I like that - burning is tangible - burning is real. I wonder - is it the same as the strong emotion I can feel for instance when I listen to Stainer's God so loved the world?
If this counts as "tangible" (as opposed to mere chemicals coursing through my bloodstream) then maybe it is because of the gospel truth in the words. And if this is truth then life is not but a dream and there is purpose.
"But, look here," said I. "This isn't child's play. Are you quite certain that this Dark Lord, this depraved Oyarsa of Tellus, really exists? Do you know for certain either that there are two sides, or which side is ours?" He fixed me suddenly with one of his mild, but strangely formidable, glances. "You are in real doubt about either, are you?" he asked. "No," said I, after a pause, and felt rather ashamed.
I vacillate between doubt and being ashamed about doubting. But above all I long for reality. But I'm also a coward - afraid that if I abdicate I will loose eternal salvation.
Only a minority even know of Bruckner: of those who do an even smaller minority enjoy his music. He was an unusual and lonely man but a Catholic of intense faith [see my note again]. I have just enjoyed listening to Sergiu Celibidache's rendition of Bruckner's 5th. I do not often allow myself to listen to serious music, partly because I just don't and partly because it can be rather antisocial in my context. I'm also reading Anton Bruckner - Rustic Genius by Werner Wolff which seems a more positive biography than some I have read. He quotes Bruckner as saying:
When God finally calls me and asks, what have you done with the talent I gave you, my lad, I will show Him my scores and I hope He will judge me mercifully.
and They want me to write in a different way. I could, but I must not. Out of thousands I was given this talent by God, only I. Sometime I will have to give an account of myself. How would the Father in Heaven judge me if I followed others and not Him?
Here was a man, laughed at by many in his time and still today, a timid, obscure, odd, awkward, simple, unassuming, yet devout man. But from his pen so many have been uplifted, set at peace, enthralled, gob-smacked, wowed. In his music we find sheer beauty, lasting reality.
His music: when I listen to lesser composers; Mozart, Haydn, and such like, I hear music for the sake of music. When I listen to the later works of Bruckner I do not so much hear the music but am immersed in the atmosphere it creates. The music is still there, of course, and expertly arranged, but it is no longer the sole purpose but only a means to an end. I am so glad that he was dogged enough not to "write in a different way". Like: but men spoke from God as they were moved by the Holy Spirit.
I once heard a visiting preacher pooh-pooh a man in his home congregation who associated the uplifting found in music with experience of God. First it grated on me that he should shun a brother publically. Second, I am not at all sure that he was right. The purpose of Christian praise is to lift the participators into a recognition of the greatness of God. Like a telescope makes a distant object appear larger and brighter but does not actually change the object. Could not performing appropriate absolute music just as well be praise? I imagine there were no words When the morning stars sang together, and all the sons of God shouted for joy. Sometimes words are cheap and inadequate but music can be sublime.
This post has taken several weeks to write and I am still unsure whether I have made my point clearly enough. The lie I think I have lived is not some objective "God is dead" but is inside me. It feels as though I am finally waking up and my former life has been but a dream. I wake and grope around in the semi-darkness and wonder: where am I, who am I, what am I doing here? Movies have used this idea and gradually little clues suggest a previous existance. Yes, I was alive back then, but I didn't understand, and I am not sure I understand any better now.
A note on faith
Abraham, we are told, was the father of faith. He believed God and God counted it to him as righteousness. But his faith also led him to do some dumb things like the conception and disposal of Ishmael (though God blessed him). Based on this I suppose that when we act on what we genuinely but mistakenly think is a word from God, it is sort of divinely overlooked or at least side stepped - because it was, after all, an act of faith on our part. This idea is similar to the case of Emeth.
I watched Journey's End on Netflix the other evening. For those of you who have not seen it, one review summarises: Led by young officer Stanhope, whose mental health is rapidly disintegrating, a group of British soldiers await their fate in an Aisne dugout during the end of World War I. It is grueling but worthwhile if the aim is, as was mine, to experience in some small way what atrocities people had to endure to guarantee the freedom we now enjoy. And, besides, it stars Asa Butterfield whose performance I so appreciated in Hugo.
Whilst Sarah and the kids did Imaginosity, I took off to the sea, barefoot of course. It occurred to me on the way back, cold, wet, hungry and worn out, that I might have used my newly acquired free-travel card and investigated the green Luas tram line.
My track: 11.7 miles, average speed moving 6.34 mph
I took the shortest route to the sea which took me to Blackrock, then followed the coast to Dún Laoghaire where I ran to the end of the western harbour sea-wall. My pictures are proof of my madness, in case anyone doubts.
Dún Laoghaire ahead: here I met a man who had just braved the waves
Here's a definition: Anything that makes you feel good is sensual. Like, a massage, eating chocolate, having a bath or shower, tickling, kissing and hugging, sliding your fingers on your arms and neck, etc. It could also be a nice setting or eating tasty food and drink.
Christians can be kill joys - here's a site that appears to rule out anything that is pleasurable, quoting Ephesians They have become callous and have given themselves up to sensuality, greedy to practice every kind of impurity and concludes that we must be willing to die to our old nature, which includes sensuality. And yet I find Christians who enjoy good food, or a glass of wine, who go to concerts one supposes because they enjoy the music, and so on.
Ah, I hear you say, it is over-indulgence that is wrong - God means us to enjoy life. Which I agree with, but it begs the question of when is indulgence "over"? At the end of the day I suppose each of us has to answer that question for themselves. We know Jesus came eating and drinking, and they said of him, Behold a man gluttonous, and a winebibber, a friend of publicans and sinners. I find it hard to believe that he did not enjoy the good food he was presented with when feasting with, for example, Simon the pharisee. Although the story makes it clear that this was not his focus.
In his diary Adrian Plass writes: Found Aunt Marjorie looking through the TV magazines in the sitting room. After we had exchanged the customary kiss in which not even the tiniest part of my face touches the tiniest part of hers, she said, ‘I am encircling with black ink, those programmes that are unsuitable and which we shall not be watching during the Christmas period!’ Uncle Ralph arrives a day later and observes Heh! Good biz! Someone's gone through and marked off all the best progs! Is Adrian advocating a middle way?
The apostle Paul said ...for I have learned in whatever situation I am to be content. I know how to be brought low, and I know how to abound. In any and every circumstance, I have learned the secret of facing plenty and hunger, abundance and need. One gets the impression that he did not particularly seek either extreme, but was able to enjoy the plenty when it came his way. Which is a principle I sort of live by, even if I sometimes explicitly seek pleasure like buying a bar of chocolate or watching a movie or listening to a symphony. Daft, get real, I hear some of you saying. But you cannot be both serious about following Christ and at the same time pay no attention to what you allow yourself to do or not do. This little boy says it all...
A friend, a few years older than me, sitting across the room has just returned from the US visiting her granddaughter. In telling us about the visit she observes that this was probably the last time she would make such a trip.
Growing older is insidious. I don't like to admit that I am growing older, and certainly not that I am growing old, but every so often I catch myself thinking I might never do or go to such and such again. Or thinking that there is no point upgrading certain equipment or software because what I have will last me through. So I kind of plateau or worse still start going downhill. There is of course some truth in this position, but the negative implications get me in the belly - that gnawing feeling that not all is well. Taken further I think they'd call it depression but I'll not give in that easily.
But, honestly, why upgrade my CAD software when that which I have does all (or at least most) of what I need? And in any case I am gradually retiring my design business. Or why learn the latest programming languages when what I have used till now does what I want and, may I say, often does it more slickly that the new fangled stuff. Threads and generator functions indeed. When tackling a longer than usual run I wonder if it will be the last time I will run that far. Mind you, I have no intention of giving up trying.
We watch Meg (she's the dog, now way past my age in dog years). She has rheumatism in her back legs, has suffered mini-strokes so holds her head on one side, is almost totally deaf, and is far less sociable than she used to me. One day she will die. And that will be that. Till then we feed her, try to make her life livable (she doesn't complain - dogs don't). I wonder what I'll be like at that age? Or what it will feel like, same old me but in a crustier and less forgiving outward shell. I don't know and I confess I am a little apprehensive - not so much of death but not at all liking pain or inconvenience.
Short term memory loss is another getting-older thing. I go to the loo, flush it, wash my hands and then wonder - did I flush the loo? One learns to manage this by having only certain places that one is allowed to leave things like shoes, wallet, gloves and the like. But it is still endemic and a nuisance. And the management schemes are very well until one's customary ways are interrupted.
On the other hand I am glad to be alive. I am very thankful that I discovered barefoot running and am (still) able to go interesting places on my own and totally under my own steam and with no help from Adidas or whoever thank you very much. I don't have to pay subscription fees for my exercise and the world is my gym. Although I admit to buying foot moisturising cream. And I am so thankful that I still find enjoyment in seeing beauty, hearing music, tasting fish pie... even if my senses are dulled.
I was given a new book - a birthday present from MYD - and couldn't put it down. A beautifully written though somewhat strange story a bit like although less substantial than Kafka on the Shore. The author pulls images from all manner of and random sources and mixes them all together into the mind of a seven year old boy, recounted when he is middle aged and his memory has become sketchy. And then, last evening we watched the new Netflix Mowgli. One cannot help comparing it with Favreau's Jungle Book or to Kipling's original stories but we enjoyed it none the less. The common theme is what it means to be a boy. I too have largely forgotten that richest part of my life story but small episodes come to my remembrance every so often - like watching the world go by perched on a dangerously rusty corrugated iron roof in blatant defiance of the Adults, or tinkering with ancient radio sets in my workshop in the Top Garden and the joy of finding that my recently constructed oscilloscope actually worked, or loitering in Drove Lane praying fervently that one or other of my boyhood would-be sweethearts would actually like me too. Nothing like as exciting as Mowgli.
