Letters to God

A six year old girl wrote a letter to God which ran something like this...
"Dear God. Who invented you?"
 Her father sent the letter to various church leaders, some of whom responded, some didn't. This was the response from the Archbishop of Canterbury.

Dear Lulu,


Your dad has sent on your letter and asked if I have any answers. It’s a difficult one! But I think God might reply a bit like this –


‘Dear Lulu – Nobody invented me – but lots of people discovered me and were quite surprised. They discovered me when they looked round at the world and thought it was really beautiful or really mysterious and wondered where it came from. They discovered me when they were very very quiet on their own and felt a sort of peace and love they hadn’t expected. Then they invented ideas about me – some of them sensible and some of them not very sensible. From time to time I sent them some hints – specially in the life of Jesus – to help them get closer to what I’m really like. But there was nothing and nobody around before me to invent me. Rather like somebody who writes a story in a book, I started making up the story of the world and eventually invented human beings like you who could ask me awkward questions!’


And then he’d send you lots of love and sign off. I know he doesn’t usually write letters, so I have to do the best I can on his behalf. Lots of love from me too.


+Archbishop Rowan

I'm really quite impressed. For a nonconformist.

Blind Justice

There's something rather ironic today about the blindness of justice, all being equal under the law. An Iranian man who after repeated rejection by a woman, threw a bucket of concentrated sulphuric acid in her face was to receive the same punishment himself today. At noon, he was to be anaesthetised then acid dropped into his eyes by medically qualified personnel. The woman, blinded and disfigured for life, without benefit of anaesthesia, is apparently quite willing to do to him exactly what he did to her and has travelled from Spain in order to be prepared to do so. After repeated and hitherto unsuccessful attempts to restore her sight in Barcelona, she has insisted on her right under the law and is currently deaf to all entreaty from her own and other Western governments to either pardon him or accept financial compensation, which is the only legal way to avoid sentence being carried out.  An eye for an eye or qesas (retributive justice in kind) is carried out rarely, usually for murder and the moral quagmire is appalling. Western culture recoils at the barbarity of both the offence and its punishment but Iran is an immature democracy, ruled by a theocratic elite and the likelihood of this woman saying 'go, and sin no more' is remote.
As of this moment, sentence has been postponed but the Damoclean threat - an appalling punishment in itself - still hovers.
Many around the world commented that the efficient dispatch of the skinny old man in Abbotabad last week carries moral consequences of similar magnitude. The story is told of Alexander the Great and a pirate he captured. The Emperor (Obama) placed the pirate (Osama) on trial, angrily demanding of him "How dare you molest the seas?". The pirate responded "How dare you molest the whole world? Because I do it with a small boat and you do it with a great navy, I am called a pirate and you an emperor." (Augustine,City of God) We might observe that a trial was not, in this case, granted to the 'pirate'; instead his guilt was assumed and, one might argue, retributive justice was similarly applied.

Creative Dissatisfaction

Here’s a question. Is ‘creative dissatisfaction either a) sinful b) divisive and counterproductive or c) absolutely essential to church growth? It comes as no surprise when I tell you that I’m pretty firmly in camp (c).

What does ‘creative dissatisfaction’ really mean? I think it means that we’re always on the lookout for opportunities, usually masquerading as problems, and ways to improve, if necessary dismantling irrelevant structures. No sophistry here, if a way can be found, or presents itself, there’s no escape, it should be implemented, not endlessly talked about, mulled over, prayed over or agonised about.

Good leaders should fully and visibly embrace the need for “constructive dissatisfaction” and the desire for positive change - not just putting it on the agenda but personally investing themselves in it. If they do, a group forms up behind them, buying into the concept and adding to the investment. We used to call it ‘catching the vision’ as I recall.

Wherein lies the danger? Obviously, the notion of change of any kind often brings out the worst in people.  The movers and shakers are often perceived as always harping and critical – usually by people who can’t see the rhino on the lawn and if they do they simply walk politely around it, hoping it will find somewhere else to graze. The frogs on the lilypad sit in comfort, croaking soothingly about Tradition, which makes me want to kick the lilypad hard since investment with a capital letter confers meaningless authority and an antithetical view of progress.

Whether the Church likes it or not, pilgrimage is a nomadic way of life. Daring to take a long, cool look at ourselves and ask why we do what we do takes courage.

For The Love Of Literature

All the best titles for books have been taken. Were I ever to bestir myself from characteristic languor and indolence, leap to my intellectually challenged feet and actually exsanguinate sufficiently to write a book, I wonder what it might be called?

Here's a synopsis. Or three.

"Nail Clippings And Other Scrapbooks"
William would like to own a dog, but is unsure which breed to buy. He also wants to meet women. Loitering in parks waiting for female passers-by with canines he feels is beneath his dignity, so he gets a job as a mobile dog-groomer. Visiting the houses of those sufficiently well-heeled to afford his services, he encounters gay pride, narcissism and nymphomania. And, that's only the dogs.

"Fire Me. I Dare You"
If you work in an establishment where the chairman's door is always open, fresh coffee is always available and the secretaries all have pleasingly full bosoms, you have my permission to wind a piece of electrical flex around your smug, self-satisfied neck, firmly attach it to the air-conditioner and leap from a tall building. On the other hand, if the place is managed by the guy who does the photocopying, there's a concrete ceiling for promoted posts and you have a constant nagging headache, this book is for you. Learn how to subvert meetings with subtle but effective points of order, bury unpopular people in mindless, labyrinthine paperwork and get your immediate superior to resign on the grounds of ill-health.

"The Rock Star Librarian"
Janet is fifty-four and technically a virgin. She spends her days in the reference section of the public library, cataloguing building permits, hence is myopic with a secularised eschatology of progress. Catching the same bus every day, she encounters Hans, an exchange student half her age from Dusseldorf with whom she strikes up an unlikely eight minute conversation every morning. Hans is plausible and darkly good-looking, introduces her to the ELO and Ecstasy, via an evening at a string quartet concert. This so dislocates her personality that she takes to wearing ripped Prada jeans and develops a taste for Sambuca on the rocks. Her consequent moral decline is a powerful political statement about the perils of French lingerie and the validity of libraries in the age of Google.

Oh, where shall I start? Perhaps I might be able to weave all three themes together somehow.

My Tribe

It's never a good idea to read philsophy in the privacy of one's own bathroom. Firstly, one's attention should be diverted elsewhere and lumbar musculature tends to complain on prolonged inactivity. Secondly, it provides a window for a period of (often lengthy) introspection. My stay there today was fruitful, in more ways than one.
I may have inadvertently discovered my 'tribe'- those called, quite cruelly, I think -  'cynics' in the gentlest and least toxic sense. I asked myself  "Am I a disgruntled and misunderstood idealist, a subversive wit, perhaps a professional misfit, a sceptical jester, almost a curmudgeon, or, a secret sentimentalist who longs for a simpler, sweeter life?" I humbly answered 'Yes'. It seems that cynics are as diverse as dogs, but all brethren  under the skin. Something about the ways of the church or even the world makes us want to howl. Epictetus the Stoic wrote  that "a cynic is a spy who aims to discover what things are friendly or hostile to man; after making accurate observations, he then comes back and reports the truth."  It seems I am in good company. Think of Voltaire and Mark Twain, the bitter irony,  biting sarcasm and mirthful ridicule, exposing the follies of their times like open sores as well as the fatuous, vacuous and timeless foibles of mankind.

What a sadly maligned and misunderstood tribe we are!

Cynicism, after all, springs not from cruelty or viciousness, but from precisely the opposite: a fatal love of virtue. If we were mere realists, we'd have no need for cynicism; the world would never disappoint us because we'd expect so little of it. But the best cynics are still idealists with a wounded childlike soul under their scarred hides. We wanted the world to be a better place, and we find it so difficult to shrug off disappointment when it lets us down. Our cynicism gives us the painful power to behold life shorn of its sustaining illusions. Thus, my own definition of a cynic:

"an idealist whose rose-coloured glasses have been removed, snapped in two and stamped into the earth, immediately improving his vision."

If we were activists, we'd do something constructive about our discontentment. But we're smart enough to know that we will never prevail, and probably a little too lazy to attempt any labour that's predestined to fail.  So we retaliate with our unique brand of wounded wit. If we can't defeat our oppressors, at least we can mock them in good fellowship. That's about as much justice as a cynic can expect.
This post was written to cheer those who know me well, and to feel better about themselves in consequence. You know who you are.

Uneasy Rapprochement

So, Fatah and Hamas are going to end four years of bitter wrangling, kiss and make up. Are they, indeed. Smoke and mirrors again.

Hamas’s refusal to allow Fatah to regain a foothold in the Gaza Strip and Fatah’s refusal to allow Hamas to reciprocate in the West Bank are two of the main obstacles to genuine reconciliation.  The signing of the 'agreement' creates a façade of unity but it is unclear how they will implement the agreement on the ground. The subtext is, of course, statehood and the unilateral declaration of Palestinian independence. Both sides believe that once this Holy Grail has been achieved, they will be able to exert more and more political and even military leverage on a fragmented Israeli state, and the belief that it should be achieved at any cost may well prolong the deadlock.  A senior Hamas leader said in Cairo 'we are prepared to pay any price for reconciliation'. Except, perhaps, the recognition of the state of Israel, which would effectively remove Hamas' raison d'etre. Tax dollars were withheld by Israel since if a joint Hamas- Fatah account were to be created, transfer of funds to a terrorist organisation dedicated to Israel's overthrow would be suicidal and spectacularly stupid. Israel would therefore need assurances from the PA that its funds would not be funnelled in some fashion to Hamas, in other words a measure of trust, which will be a very long time coming. Calls for a third Intifada are numerous on Facebook and the Israelis are well aware of the potential momentum which could be generated. Yet, Israel has its home-grown radicals. Any significant attempt to give away East Jerusalem as a capital for Palestine would meet with violent resistance. Israel need a safe pair of hands at this moment and steps should be taken to build bridges with Israeli Arabs – of whom there are a surprising number – who would much prefer to be governed by Israel rather than Gaza and hence, by proxy, Damascus.

Two Men

Two men died this week. They had one thing in common - a burning, unquenchable zeal.

One man was born in modest circumstances on May 19, 1931, the beginning of the Great Depression, in Hammond, Indiana, to a line of devout Pentecostal preachers. The other was born to privilege and wealth on March 10, 1957 in Saudi Arabia.

One, armed only with faith and the love of God, entered the dark and violent gangland world of Bedford-Stuyvesant in New York City to make war on the drug-fuelled forces at its heart. The other, armed with an AK47 assault rifle, went to an equally violent, dark and dangerous Afghanistan, joining the mujahideen to kill the Soviet violators of an Islamic land.

One founded Teen Challenge, a biblically based  drug and alcohol rehabilitation program, expanding to over a thousand centres in eighty countries worldwide. An entire generation became inspired that their lives mattered to God. The other founded Al Qaeda or 'the base' a multinational stateless army dedicated to violence and terror.

One believed that God can and does reach the desperate, marginalised and dispossessed with his love and grace. The other envisioned a complete break from foreign influences in Muslim countries and the creation of a new Islamic caliphate, that a Judaeo-Christian alliance is conspiring to destroy Islam and that the killing of bystanders and civilians was religiously justified in jihad.

One died tragically in a car crash in Texas, full of years, leaving behind a legacy of purpose and hope. The other was shot dead by American special forces, hiding behind a woman, in a specially purchased walled compound less than half a mile from a prestigious Pakistani military academy.

Whose reward will be the greater, I wonder?