Remembering those who died at arms…

 

Another Remembrance day. Another 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month. Bands and sober crowds with the occasional glint of gold on the chest of men in blazers and regimental ties.

For me, this day always sets off cognitive dissonance. Remembering this kind of death can easily become a kind of glorification; an elevation of war to the great heights of human endeavour. The mass death of men in the flower of youth is so much more marketable than the quiet work of peacemakers, be that in our neighbourhoods or around a table at the UN.

But die they did, and whilst I can not rejoice at their death, nor pretend that being gutted by a shard of shrapnel can ever ennoble, I can pause and pray that we might yet learn something from all the carnage.

And I think the Bishop of London said it this morning quite well- the greatest lesson for us is to acknowledge that war happens when we allow poisonous hatred to flourish in our societies. When we scapegoat, when we point fingers, when we place ourselves inside and others outside.

The endless fascination with the second world war (which I share in part) always takes place with an underlying assumption about how plucky England fought a lonely crusade- a holy war- against the evils of fascism. Our Knights rode Spitfire steeds to slay the Teutonic dragons.

In this stained glass portrait of war it becomes impossible to feel the shame of all the empire building, the asset grabbing and the dreadnought building that Britain indulged in for hundreds of years beforehand- factors which any high school historian has to acknowledge as the fertile fields in which the seeds of both world war were nurtured.

So on this 11th day of the 11th month let us see war for what it is- a terrible failure. Each life lost paid the price of this failure.

Each battle won obscures the failure slightly but failure it remains.

Hands…

A slight thing, written as I considered making things with my own hands…

 

Hands

 

Give me hands that reach and hold

Not hands that grab and grasp

Give me open hands

Not those made into a fist

Give me hands to build

Not tear down or destroy

 

Give me hands to shape and carve

Not hands to slice or cut

Put these hands in my own soil

Never taking seed sown by others

Let these hands be life lined

Not lifted against another

 

Let these hands make quiet music

No fife or drums of war

Give me hands that cup the ear

Not hands that push and point

And let these hands not pluck your specks

But take the logs from my eye

 

 

 

 

The blessing of darkness…

(Our house lit by a bit of slave ‘flash painting’ work on a long exposure.)

 

Last week we had a lovely couple staying as guests in our annex from London. This was their first time in Scotland, and they were blown away by the beauty, and even more so by the peace and quiet.

One of the things they mentioned too was darkness. The kind of darkness that you only get at some distance from light pollution that bounces off clouds and leaches into every corner. Their reaction to a walk up our drive at night was a combination of fear and wonder.

All of which led me to think about the juxtaposition of light against dark, goodness against badness, truth against falsehood, etc. All those old polarities; one of which we ascribe to God, the other we blame on the flesh or the devil.

One of which can not exist without the other.

So, light can only be understood in the knowledge of darkness. As Jesus put it;

…the people living in darkness
have seen a great light;
on those living in the land of the shadow of death
a light has dawned.

Matt 4:16

I started to think about how all of these things might exist in the mind of God.

And the Darkness became purple again.

Welcome to the new Archbishop…

At the time of writing this, we await the likely announcement that Justin Welby, the current Bishop of Durham, will be the next leader of the Anglican Communion. There is a 15 min radio profile on him here.

Here is my gathering of a few facts about him;

Eaton school. Most expensive fee paying school in the land, where the rich and autocratic send their kids.

Trinity College Cambridge. Member of the Christian Union, a very Evangelical Grouping known as ‘the God Squad’. The dean however (in contrast to Dean of John Robinson, was a liberal radical, famous for a controversial liberal theology book called ‘Honest to God’.)

Evangelical. Attended Holy Trinity Brompton, Charismatic in outlook.

Joined an Oil Company, became treasurer. Very rich.

1989 gave it up to become parish priest.

10 years ago, fast rise up church hierarchy- Dean, Bishop of Liverpool, Bishop of Durham (less than a year.)

Now Archbishop?

Where does he stand on those totemic issues that have the capacity to rip the church apart? Apparently he is supportive of women in ministry, but his views on homosexuality are less clear. He has suggested that he supports the ‘churches position’ on the matter, which might suggest he holds to traditional teaching.

However, others have suggested he has really good skills relevant to the post- being a great communicator, intermediary, good with managing money and engaging with issues. This as contrast with the outgoing Archbishop, Rowan Williams, who was a brilliant, deeply spiritual, cerebral character.

Leadership matters. We only have to look at the things happening in the Roman Catholic Church at the moment under the leadership of Pope Benedict as he tries to roll back changes made in the church over the last 40 years since Vatican II.

The Anglican Communion is a very different animal however- much more about the vicarage kitchen table than the Papal palace. I hope and pray that Justin Welby will be a leader who we will look back on with same affection as most will be doing on his predecessor.

Why do Glaswegians die young?

Health inequalities- what causes them? Why do people in some parts of the UK have an average lifespan of years and years longer than people who live in other parts?

Glasgow is a case in point. Life expectancy at birth in Glasgow is the lowest in the UK –over six years below the national average for Glaswegian men (71.6 years, compared with a UK average of 78.2 years), and over four years below average for Glasgow’s women (78 years, compared with the UK average of 82.3).

In previous discussions, we suggested that this difference was primarily caused by pockets of extreme deprivation in the inner cities- an underclass who die young through high risk lifestyles skewing the statistics. However this may well not be the case.

This from the Guardian;

 …the conventional wisdom that Glasgow’s ill health is all down to poverty, bad diet and bad behaviour is, at best, partial and, at worst, misleading. Despite years of research and decades of evidence that something has gone terribly wrong in the heart of Scotland’s largest city, the underlying causes of Glasgow’s fatally poor health remain something of a scientific mystery.

Poverty alone doesn’t account for Glasgow’s dismally low life expectancy. Other British cities – Liverpool and Manchester, for example – have rates of deprivation every bit as high as Glasgow, yet their life expectancies are substantially higher. What’s more, even Glasgow’s most affluent citizens, those in the top 10% of the income distribution, die significantly younger than their counterparts in other British cities. At best, according to the epidemiologists’ calculations, deprivation accounts for less than half (around 40%) of Glasgow’s “mortality gap” compared with the rest of the UK. The other causes are still unknown.

This is quite a statement. For many years research had pointed clearly to the fact that poverty is the single most likely indicator of life expectancy. What other options are there that might explain the Glasgow situation then?

With colleagues at NHS Scotland and the University of Glasgow, Walsh has devoted much of the past five years to uncovering what makes Glasgow so different, compared with other, similarly deprived British cities. If you think deep-fried Mars bars are to blame for Glasgow’s ill health (as many English commentators seem to), then think again: obesity rates in the city are actuallylower than in some English cities.

Nor can Glasgow’s infamous penchant for alcohol and cigarettes explain the puzzle. According to the largest health surveys in England and Scotland, Glaswegians neither binge-drink nor smoke more than their peers in Liverpool or Manchester. Drug abuse (particularly heroin), knife crime, murder and suicide are all significantly more prevalent in Glasgow than in other cities. But that only prompts the question – why is this the case? What is it about life in Glasgow that seems to predispose some of its citizens to such destructive behaviours?

“Lots of people have their own pet hypotheses about it,” Walsh says. In a recent research paper, Walsh, McCartney and their co-authors, Chik Collins and David Batty, assessed no fewer than 17 competing explanations for Glasgow’s ill health. There are theories that blame the weather (perhaps it is vitamin D deficiency or chilly winters?), those that blame the data (perhaps Glasgow is simply poorer than it looks?), plenty of theories that blame the Glaswegians (a culture of hedonism, sectarianism or alienation) and still others that point the finger at the Tories (a “political attack” on Glasgow, conducted by Margaret Thatcher’s government). Some have more supporting evidence than others, but all are unproven, says Walsh. “The main thing to say is that it’s not going to be one thing. It’s going to be a combination of different factors interacting,” he says.

Point of death may not be the best measure of a life, and population wide stats tell little about individual experience- but I believe that this gap in life expectancy is a terrible blight on our country which should really be much higher up the political agenda.

Well done Will!

 

This was William about 4 years ago in France, sending down a delivery on the campsite. It seems a long time ago.

This week, after two trials, he was selected to be part of the Regional Development Squad for under 15s. He is only 12 so this is quite a vote of confidence in his potential. For those who understand the language, it is his wrist spin bowling that resulted in his selection- although his batting has come on in leaps and bounds this year too.

The boy could go far…

Guy Fawkes…

We gathered to celebrate the failed terrorist plot to blow up the houses of Parliament today.

(Or from a different perspective…)

They gathered today to burn another Catholic freedom fighter in effigy.

The photo above freaked me a little- it looked like a man being burnt on a cross- which would be slightly appropriate I suppose.

So I chose to engage with the bonfire and fireworks (both of which I love) as a means to remember a time when Protestant and Catholic were set against one another, and truth tribalism was let loose on the land like a pack of raging wolves.

15 minutes of grace…

I listened to this today, and it made me cry.

There was a story told by a woman who returned to the mental hospital secure ward where she had been incarcerated years before. The building was being demolished and she was there to take photographs. But walking into the building she could hear the noises of people shouting and screaming, and she could remember feeling so dreadful whilst she was there that she broke both arms by smashing them into the wall in the hope that they would have to take her somewhere else. She cried as she remembered the dead butterflies she saw on the floor of the empty ward, and could only bring herself to take photographs with all the heavy locked doors wide open.

But there were also lots of other stories of people who found their own healing- their own recovery.

It is 15 minutes long, but full of beauty. Go on, have a listen.

Climb every mountain…

No, I am not going all Rogers and Hammerstein on you- rather I wanted to mention a remarkable story of endurance and human endeavour.

I have a long time interest in climbing mountains- personally this has amounted to gasping up many a peak in the UK, but it also means a book shelf or two full of books about climbs in the Himalayas.

If I analyse what this interest is about, I have to acknowledge that climbing mountains is a pointless, self absorbed, selfish activity. It liberates no captives, heals none of the afflicted, brings no comfort to those in grief. Rather it can become the obsessional activity of the rather socially dysfunctional.

But any of us who have been on a high ridge as the dawn rose, or stood in the snow as hammerhead clouds gathered in the distance, or tested ourselves beyond any comfort zone on ascent through wild rock- for us there remains something noble and pure about mountains that can not be dismissed. The photograph above was taken on the Cuillin Ridge, Skye, on a day when cloud lapped my feet on one side of a knife edge, and clear air dropped two thousand feet on the other. The day lives on in my memory.

But back to the story. Two British men have just completed a climb up Mazeno Ridge, on Nanga Parbat in the Himalayas. This climb has been widely regarded as the ‘last great problem of the Himalayas’, and countless previous expeditions have failed. Involving both technical climbing and massive endurance, the Mazeno route requires ascents on seven subsidiary summits above 6,000m before tackling the final summit of over 8000m.  Remember that at these altitudes, gaining even an extra 300m in height takes superhuman strength. It is not called ‘the death zone’ for nothing.

The men who managed this incredible feat are Rick Allen and and Sandy Allan. Rick is 59 years old and Sandy is 57.

This from the Guardian;

Sandy Allan and his climbing partner Rick Allen were at their last camp below the summit of Nanga Parbat, the world’s ninth highest mountain, when they gathered together the food they had left.

After 14 days on the vast unclimbed Mazeno Ridge – the longest in the Himalayas – it amounted to a packet of McVitie’s Digestives biscuits.

A lighter they had taken with them had stopped working, its flint worn through. The only spare, they realised, was in the pocket of another member of the team who, exhausted and demoralised, had already decided to descend.

The consequence was that they could not light their stove to boil snow for water, essential on the world’s highest mountains where the consequence of dehydration is the risk of frostbite and pulmonary and cerebral oedema. They hoped, however, that they could reach the summit and descend the imposing Diamir Face in a day and a half; they were counting on fixed ropes left by other expeditions. In reality, it took them three full days to get down from the summit without any food or water, a lengthy struggle through deep snow at the limits of survival.

When asked if he intended to climb more high dangerous routes like this, Sandy said this; “I’m 57. I’m a father. The rat’s been fed.”

A rat it may be, but a what an animal.