Last resort

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trident

Whilst continuing with our project to finally have a bedroom that it is possible to enjoy being in, I was listening to Radio 4. Highly recommended for entertainment whilst grouting tiles…

Todays offering was a programme called The human button.

It was all about the people whose job it is, either as politicians or members of the armed services, to potentially bring death to millions. They interviewed men who flew Vulcan bombers in the 1960’s, signing a receipt for their Blue Streak Nuclear missiles before take off. Unimaginable destruction in the hands of a 24 year old man.

But the most fascinating bit of all concerned a little known bit of British Armageddon etiquette, called ‘Letters of last resort’.

It seems that one of the first jobs each incoming Prime Minister is to be given instruction about the operation of Britain’s 4 Trident nuclear submarines- one of which is kept at sea at any one time, as a so-called ‘deterrent’ to any other nuclear power that should have itchy fingers over their own big red buttons.

And one of the things they have to do, is to write a letter, in their own handwriting, to each of the 4 submarine Captains. These ‘letters of last resort’ give final instruction to the Captains, should it’s line of command have been destroyed by a nuclear attack- in other words, if all of us (and our Prime Minister) are dead.

The options that the Prime Ministers have are;

  1. Retaliate
  2. Do not retaliate
  3. Place yourself under the command of the USA or Australian Governments

Few Politicians have ever revealed what instructions their letter contained. The letters are destroyed, unopened, at the change of an administration. One Prime Minister however, Jim Callaghan, revealed that he would have retaliated. Another Labour politician, Dennis Healey suggested he would not have done, as at that point the primary purpose of a nuclear deterrent would already have failed.

I find it comforting and terrifying in equal measure that even this potential last act of the human race is so… human.

The shadow cast by the cold war passes by our house every couple of months as the black menacing shapes of the Trident submarines leave the Clyde and head out on their dreadful patrols.

If we have no politician who would stop this madness, let us at least hope for people whose last resort is not to rain down death on other people’s children.

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Starbucks, learning from church??

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Terry sent me a link to this- which raised a few painful chuckles.

Painful as it was very familiar!

Not quite sure what point they are making though. Is the issue about image and presentation? Do we just need to be hipper and more trendy? I thought this had been tried, and had not worked, at least in the UK. Perhaps we are just not trendy enough? Perhaps we aimed at Starbucks but got stuck somewhere in a 1950’s milk bar?

Perhaps too the church in America is a bit different- they can still count on large numbers of folk who go every Sunday, even though numbers are going down there also.

For my part, I think that church as an institution does need change. But perhaps the real issue is that we Christians need to change the way we live out faith, rather than the way we institutionalise it…

The clip above seems to be challenging the church to market itself better. Is this what we should be about? Sure, I can see the wisdom of being creative and relevant in how engage with the world around us, but I still feel uncomfortable with the idea of ‘church marketing’.

I think this relates to a certain extent to New Labour, and ‘spin’. In 1997, I was euphoric along with many others as the Labour government swept aside the Tories and finally came into government. They had finally found themselves a winning formula that was eminently marketable, just as the Conservatives seemed to degenerate into a sleeze jelly.

But ideology, passion, reality- all seems to have been subordinated to spin. The message was lost in the marketing.

But I also feel a bit uncomfortable with the idea of church as ‘corporation’.

Church is (or I think SHOULD be) a collective of activists, whose rules of engagement are counter cultural, as well as intra cultural. We are called out, to seek and to save. To liberate captives and bring sight where there is blindness.

Marketing techniques, whose aim is to attract more people in, to build up the corporation- nope, not for me I think…

Beaches were made for contemplation…

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We step out of the car into a wind whipped in from the arctic
Unconstrained by obstacle
And walk the soft sand towards the music of the sea.
Passing the strandline of shells left by the high spring tide
Grateful when feet find the firm sand squeezed by the kettledrum roll
Of the wonderful waves
As they spit out sparkling pebbles
Left in the sunlight like gifts from God

Inside our hats and scarves we are alone in inner space
Apart from the occasional sentence shouted into the salt air
To bring the kids away from a wave that reaches further towards
The tops of wellies

Beaches, I think, were made for contemplation
Just the place for poets
So I lift my watering eyes to the wind
And stand before a sea going out for ever
But also keeping on coming in
Offering to all the far horizon
And the longing for landfall
At the mercy of a friendly wind
And the fall of the tide

I watch the waves in the distance, hoping for a glimpse of a sea monster
And ponder all that life down deep
All those colours invisible in indigo darkness
Alive in creations overflow
And it is all too big
Unfathomable

Cuttlefish
Alien flashing transparency
Reduced somehow to parrot food
In another world

Whale
So big that movement seems tectonic
Impossible

So with faces numb
But senses alive
We walk on towards the reward
Of the seaside town
Offering some out of season hospitality
To poets and all

how you respond to violence depends on how you choose to understand it…

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A quote from some bloke interviewed on radio 4 in relation to the latest terror attacks in India…

Inevitably, the media have been calling this awful event ‘India’s 911’.

The awful thing is that India is not unused to terror attacks- they seem to have been a constant throughout the post-Raj history. Most of these terrible things pass almost unnoticed in the west. Who remembers this from 2006 for example-

A series of seven explosions killed at least 174 people on crowded commuter trains and stations Tuesday evening in the Indian financial capital of Mumbai, police said.

Officials said at least 464 people were injured in the blasts in the city’s western suburbs as commuters made their way home. All seven blasts came within an 11-minute span, between 6:24 and 6:35 p.m. (12:54 and 1:05 p.m. GMT).

Analysts are comparing the attack with the mass transit bombings in Madrid in 2004 and London last year, saying they all involved a series of mutiple blasts and were well-coordinated.

Check out the details here…

These attacks are a little different, as they strike at the heart of India’s elite- the seat of financial power in Mumbai.

Who was responsible? No-one is sure. Al Qaeda has been suggested, although they always are. Religion and it’s power to convince people that the ends are justified by the terrible means always seems to have a part to play (check out earlier post about religious fundamentalism.)

India will blame Pakistan. They always do. And the whole world watches them looking at each other down a nuclear barrel…

Which brings me to my point. What should our response be to such dreadful violence- our personal response, and our collective response?

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Britain too has had it’s share of terrorism. For the past 40 years or so, it was related to Ireland. Now we seem to be a breeding ground for a new generation of terrorists who grow up as part of a disaffected  ethnic underclass.

When terrible things happen, there seems that governments have to be seen to ACT. This is one of the ways that democracy works. We want our governments to be active and decisive in the protection of our way of life- or at least governments think we want them to do this.

The debate becomes simple. We are under attack, we must fight back. We must not let them get away with this.

The outcome of this seems to be that Governments in turn are able to justify terrible acts in REACTION.

Almost like revenge. Payback.

A whole language set evolves- that ludicrous term ‘the war on terror’ is but part of this.

America had it’s own dreadful day of terror-

911

It was a day when the whole world held its breath, and in that instant, history found a fulcrum.

What happened next? Wars in Afghanistan, which once started will now go on, and on.

A war in Iraq, which was sold to members of the public on a set of fears that have now been found to have no basis in truth.

And a suspension of human rights, in the name of international security. State sponsored torture and detention without trial.

Shortly after 911, Brian McLaren wrote an open letter to President Bush. I remember reading it, and feeling proud that Christians-followers in the way of the King of peace- could raise their voices for justice and love and understanding, even in such a time as this. I think that this is our calling.

Never to condone, but always seek to understand. Never to accept that violence is the answer to violence. And that healing is possible, even for the most broken.

I have searched for a copy of Brian McLaren’s letter, to see how what is to be made of it with hindsight, but can’t find it (anyone out there know where I can find it?)

I think that we can already guess what history will remember most about Bush and Blair, and the stain of Guantanamo in a time when imperialism was resurgent.

One Christmas tradition that still makes me cry…

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I just found myself caught up again in an advert for the Salvation Army Christmas appeal.

I have worked with Salvation Army projects in England. They have to survive in a harsh social care environment. The advert describes the familiar cutting edge of the work they do with street sleepers.

I know all the arguments- people end up on the streets for all sorts of reasons, and need to be facilitated to help themselves- out of the destructive cycles that brought them there. Well meaning sticking plasters don’t work in complex social crises.

But if I was down to the bottom of me, and found myself on the street, a hot drink and a hand on my shoulder would be no token. It might get me up the next day.

A cup of sweet tea on a cold night might not change the world, but the hand that served it might be the start of something called hope.

And a thick blanket will never wrap the worries of a generation, but a young girl whose bright lights have gone dark might instead find grace.

And if some stinking socks are removed and twisted toes are unbound in a warm soapy bowl, there will be no world peace. But it might being peace to one persons world, for a while…

So go on- out with the credit cards.

And the flugel horns.

Argyll just got a bit wilder!

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Today I was up very early as I had to be in Oban sheriff’s court for 10.00am.

As I left the house (7.30) the temperature gauge on my car read -3. As I drove away from the Clyde, it dropped to -6. At those temperatures, all the moisture in the air is sculpted onto the tree branches and blades of grass as white ice crystals. It was stunning.

Around the head of Loch Fyne, the water’s edge had frozen solid. In fact, the whole shore line was covered in a blue coat of blue-white ice, all several inches thick. Loch Fyne is a sea loch, so I can only assume that at certain states of tide, the slack conditions mean that the fresh water dominates, raising the freezing temperature.

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I drove on past Inveraray, and up into the hills, over towards Loch Awe. And never was a name so apt- with the backdrop of stunning now covered mountains, and the deep blue sky for contrast.

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I had a discussion with my friend Nick the other day about the nature of wilderness. We are still trying to finalise a book of meditations for use in the wild places. He had written something based around the Biblical idea of wilderness as desolation- of removal and isolation from God. However, for me, and perhaps for many people who are over used to a domesticated or urban landscape, wilderness is perhaps a wonderful idea- rich with the possibility of a Created place, unsullied and unpolluted- wild and untamed.

This idea became all the more real to me today, as I heard a story.

Standing in Oban court house with some of the other witnesses, I was discussing the journey, and the state of the roads, and the stags I had seen in the white field next to the Loch. A nice woman, who is a ward sister at Oban Lorn and the Isles General Hospital was part of the conversation.

And she told me that a few months previously, she had been heading to a training course in Dunoon, also early in the morning, and had been forced to swerve on the road past Kilchurn Castle as there was a dead deer in the road that had obviously been killed by a car fairly recently. Then she saw a large black shape near the wall.

Stopping the car, she watched in amazement as a large black cat, about the size of a leopard jumped the stone wall, and padded over the fields into the forest. It had been feeding on the dead deer.

There have been stories (Check out this article here.) Half glimpsed shapes at the forest edge. Big heavy deer dragged into the undergrowth by a powerful animal that simply should not be here… There have been sightings in Aberdeen, and many in Argyll. I always doubted them- there was no solid evidence, and after all, there is the bloomin’ Loch Ness monster!

But this lady- she was a nice, sensible person, who was not playing the story for shock value. She was in no doubt as to what she had seen.

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As I drove the road on the way home, my eyes kept flicking accross to the forest edge. The possibility of yellow eyes watching me past was always there.

Nature red in tooth and claw. And right here.

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Mercurial me…

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Confidence. Self worth. Strength of purpose. Motivation and manliness.

I wear all of these like a latex mask…

Sometimes.

confidence

But then a sense of my own inadequacies crowd in, the mask melts, and I am left feeling stripped and exposed.

My wife calls it my ‘artistic temperament’- and indeed, such sensitivity can be creative. But she is just being kind- she loves me after all.

I thought as a kid that I would outgrow these fragilities if I could only… educate myself, get a good job, be thin, sing and play the guitar, find the love a beautiful girl, become successful, and popular and renowned for my artistry, creativity and wisdom.

But unfortunately, I found that I never quite outran these shadows- despite all the wonderful things life brought to me.

Some days I am a contributor, a celebrator, a lover of life and all things, an enthusiast for truth and beauty, a weeper at sunsets, and the proudest, tenderest husband and father.

On other days- hopefully fewer now- I am a withdrawer, a wound licker, a failure, a buffoon, a man so drab as to become invisible.

So here are two poems, written in very different moods. Both of them are true…

I want to change the world

I want to change the world
Piece by piece
To the broken and the hurting
I would bring release
To give voice to pure and noble thoughts
In poetry and prose
I’ll draw men from their watering holes
Into Waterstones
Make the County Council Library
A place of pilgrimage
And me the new Chestertonian
Thomas Coleridge
(Minus the opium)

I want to make a difference
To the cupboards of the soul
If not to bring down evil empires
At least to blow big holes
To the tatters of a ragged heart
In evident disgrace
I would sing redemption songs
And whisper words of grace
Let me show Gods store house
Bursting full of goods
Let me plough this furrow deep
And plant my golden spuds.

For I was made to weave some words
Into this tapestry
And though the tongue pokes out my cheek
Still this picture is of me
And if I gild the lily
As I overuse my pen
Still I love to show the
Slender turning of its stem
And the misting of the moist warm air
On icy blue white flower
For I am His creation
And His creative power.

Significance

Sometimes it seems the world has had enough of me
It has missed my fool’s wisdom
And never noticed
The stab at significance I made
In the weary light of this
Steely day

There was a moment or two
When the gap between
Hope and possibility narrowed
Like arctic floes
In a cold sea
Before the mists closed their muzzle
On the nape of my neck
And the black water yawned
And beckoned me in

I reached till the small of my back
Near broke from the cantilever
But these splayed-out fingers
Found only an empty grasp
And skinned knuckles

But hey
After all this time
You’d think I would remember
I am small
And flawed
And often ungrateful

And the world is very big

And full of other people
Just like me.

More on Baby P…

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A little lad for whom it is all too late...

A little lad for whom it is all too late...

So, three senior managers find themselves out of work. Two resign and one is suspended pending investigation (Head of Children’s services, Sharon Shoesmith- she will not be back.) Full story here.

I had posted earlier about my own reaction to the tragic news of Baby P’s death and the resignation I felt at the inevitable witch hunt that would surely follow.

Now the Social Work inspection agency (the same one that recently awarded the Haringay children’s services 3 stars for their excellent work) has now found serious failings in leadership, supervision of staff, the sharing of information and, perhaps most worryingly, evidence that kids who are suspected of being abused are not routinely interviewed alone (that is, away from parents.)

So, do I DEFEND these, my colleagues, and their obvious failings?

Well- I stand by my earlier comments- here.

And should there be a disaster in Argyll involving perhaps, a mother who is mentally ill, and a drug using father, who physically abuse a child in this horrendous way, I hope that by a combination of our closer communities, our good working relationships with colleagues in health and the police, and good practice, that we will be able to intervene and save that child.

The truth is, of course, is that even with our imperfect systems- this happens all the time. We intervene and try to make things better. Sometime we succeed. But never without a cost, that is paid out in the lives of young people as they move on into adulthood.

Argyll and Bute Council had a recent inspection from the Social Work Inspection Agency- it is there for all to read on the SWIA website (here.) It was far from positive. However, after hard work, the replacement of just about a whole management system (somehow, I survived!) and by learning the rules by which we were being measured, the follow up report was much more positive- here.

Children are incredibly fragile. And also incredibly adaptive and resilient. They survive, somehow in appalling circumstances. They even survive the states interventions to protect them.

If they are lucky.

For much of my career I have worked with adults in crisis. Many of them have been the survivors of childhood trauma- sexual abuse, beatings, broken homes and all sorts of other dreadful things. I am always amazed at how people survive…

But the dreadful truth is that dreadful things have happened before, and will happen again. And when they do- those whose task is to try to prevent these things happening will be found wanting.

That is not to say that things could not- SHOULD not- be better. But shock-reaction rarely achieves anything other than shock-defensiveness.

Meanwhile there are some very real issues facing us as we look at our attempts to protect children in our society.

  • There are the financial ones, mentioned before.
  • The community ones, in a society where people increasingly lack connection and commonality.
  • The regulatory ones- the constant drive to eliminate risk and bad practice leads to huge complexity, and individual responsibility for social workers- who in turn, take fewer risks.
  • And once we remove kids- where do we put them? Foster care placements can be impossible to find, and the homes that have not already been closed are full, and often highly problematic for the kids there.

I hope that the baby P issue will open up this debate, rather than focus on the ritual execution of yet more social work staff.

My Daughters birthday!

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Emily is 13!

We had a lovely day- a lazy morning of presents and coffee then a trip to a cafe, and finally she had a house full of friends for a party- a kind of Goth fairy party as far as I could see.

For the first time ever, her parents were not required to actually run the party- she did it all herself- meeting, greeting, party gaming and all.

I am very proud of her.

If a little redundant.

Our role in the affair was to clean up afterwards.

Some more pics-

The men who talk too much…

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whiskyI met up with a friend this evening who I had not seen for a couple of years. We met at a conference in Holland at which I was leading worship a few years ago. He is a lovely guy with a deep and passionate faith and a restless, driven energy.

It was great to see him again- to hear of his news from Ireland and work in Finland. And so sit in front of a fire with a glass or two of Whisky.

It came to me again how much or paths have taken different directions.

When I met him he was a Charismatic Catholic and I was attending a Baptist Church. He left Catholicism and moved into a Charismatic Evangelical church, and now is in a small house church. His theology is firmly towards Spirit inspiration of the Holy Word of God.

As for me, well I meet with friends in a house, get involved with other things via an arts group and seek wider fellowship with people who have found a place within the ’emerging church’ discussion.

My friend and I, as we have done previously, soon got into deep discussion. Sometimes this conversation verged on argument, but not really- although it was passionate and heart felt. Another friend bowed out early and went home, and Michaela kept out of our way too…

The point of conflict was about the usual things around emerging church- the totemic issue of homosexuality, the way we understand and read the Bible and the issue of ‘Demonic deception’ that began in the roots of the emerging church movement. He had read a book that spelled out the dangerous errors present within and underneath the EC. We could not go into detail, as Michaela was giving him a lift home, and called time at 1 AM.

Is there any point in these conversations? Neither of us was likely to make any major shifts in thinking.

I suppose you could say that they have the effect of rehearsing the arguments, testing the core assumptions and developing a deeper understanding.

But I think they may be also energy sapping and distracting. The EC has not got it all sorted- but then, who has?

Meanwhile, there is the real stuff to get on with- the living and loving and the serving and greeting of old friends.