Ashes

I decided that, for Lent this year, I would try to write a little every day.  I have no specific plans about what form that might take, or whether I'll complete much or anything of any particular projects.  Nevertheless, this Ash Wednesday, the first day of Lent, I have something to show for my efforts:

Ashes

All these years I’ve held within
The truths and lies that I have told,
Like ashes on my skin.

I thought so long that it was sin,
This secret, buried deep like gold
All these years, still held within.

I never knew how to begin,
So kept my spirit hard and cold,
Wore ashes on my skin

To hide myself from friends and kin,
Always waiting just to fold
All these years on hold, within.

I forgot just how it felt to win,
The weight of my imagined goals
Like ashes on my skin.

And in the silence and the din,
This sanctuary for the ensouled,
I shed the years I’ve held within
With ashes on my skin.

The Pilgrim's Saved Progress

Please note: the following article contains some spoilers for the videogames Everybody’s Gone to the Rapture and Horizon Zero Dawn.

As both a Christian and a gamer, one of the things I find particularly fascinating is the point where these two disparate areas of my life intersect.  There are plenty of websites and blogs dedicated to Christian responses to and interaction with the video game industry and, contrary to what some might expect, it’s not all Jack Thomson-esque ‘Violent Vidjagame’ rants.  There is a sizeable community of Christian gamers on the internet and, seeing both their faith and their gaming as important parts of their identity, they like to explore how they interact in their lives and what Christianity might have to say about gaming as a hobby; about the types of gameplay on offer or the stories games tell.  Sites like Game Church and Geeks Under Grace often explore this side of things and, though I don’t visit them much, I too like to ponder what my faith has to say about my hobby.  In particular, and especially in the last few years, I’ve been thinking about the idea of ‘pilgrimage’ in video games and it surprised me to find that there doesn’t seem to have been a lot of discussion on this topic across the internet, so far.

According to Wikipedia, “a pilgrimage is a journey, often into an unknown or foreign place, where a person goes in search of new or expanded meaning about their self, others, nature, or a higher good, through the experience. It can lead to a personal transformation, after which the pilgrim returns to their daily life.”  It’s a kind of adventure, a temporary stepping outside of ordinary life often, but not always, with a destination or goal in mind.  It does not have to be religious - indeed there’s a growing market for secular pilgrimages focussing on mental health and wellbeing.

Based on the above definition, many video games are already about pilgrimages of one kind or another.  A hero is chosen to go on a quest that takes them out of an otherwise less-than-thrilling existence and, through the course of that journey, revelations unfold before them, lessons are learned, powers are gained, etc. etc..  Sometimes this even takes the form of an actual pilgrimage, like in Final Fantasy X where your characters all accompany Yuna, the summoner, who must visit each of the temples of the Fayth in Spira, to beseech their aid in defeating the monster Sin.

Often, as indeed is the case in Final Fantasy X, the pilgrimage structure is actually subverted with the intent of saying something negative about organised religion or about spirituality in general, or just to provide an exciting (if now rather predictable) twist in the narrative.  Even then, in a lot of cases, the actual revelations themselves are far from profound and the whole experience is built more on having fun than on any kind of self-improvement or spiritual development.  And that’s fine.  That is what games are for.  But I believe they can often be so much more, whether they intend to be or not.

Before I look at some specific examples of games where I think this is the case, however, I’d like to look at another concept, related to the concept of pilgrimage, which I think captures even more closely what video games can be.  That concept is peregrinatio, a Latin phrase meaning to travel abroad, but used by Augustine of Hippo in the 4th century to refer to a way he thought Christians should journey through life, as those who are sojourning away from their homeland, rather than comfortably situated within it already.  The Celtic church took the term and used it even more specifically: peregrinatio pro amore Christi - journeying for the love of Christ.  As Esther de Waals described it in her book The Celtic Way of Prayer: The Recovery of the Religious Imagination, the Celtic peregrinatio is a “seeking, quest, adventure, wandering, exile”.  It is this concept that led so many Celtic figures, like St. Columbanus and St. Aidan, to leave their homelands and travel to spread the word of Christ, founding new Christian communities across the British Isles and beyond.  Another Celtic saint, St. Brendan the Navigator, even left behind a fantastical (and probably allegorical) journey narrative as his legacy - one which could make a fascinating premise for a game in its own right  - so committed was he to the idea of setting out and letting God lead the way.

The Celtic idea of peregrinatio permeates Celtic Christianity, such that journeys, both physical and spiritual, hold special significance and there are many Celtic prayers dedicated to the idea of journeying with God.  When looking at the medium of video games, I wonder if a virtual journey might not also hold such significance.

So what examples do I have of virtual pilgrimages?  What have been my digital peregrinationes?  Well, the most obvious example that comes to mind is Thatgamecompany’s masterpiece, Journey.  A very simple game with a wordless story about a mystical journey up a mountain, Journey is a game about pilgrimage.  The exact nature and purpose of the pilgrimage are obscure, told only through images the player finds in shrine-like locations at the end of each level, but over the course of the titular journey, you gradually build up a power of mystical light that allows you to float through the air for longer and longer periods, enabling you to reach more complicated platforming elements and to interact with a series of surreal, fabric (or scripture)-like beings who aid you on your travels.

You can also meet and play along with other players playing the same level at the same time as you.  These meetings are not pre-arranged and you have no control over them.  Neither are you able to communicate with the other player through any means other than your own character’s movement through the world and through the ‘speaking’ of bright glyphs of light, the meaning of which is… whatever you want them to be.  In these simple interactions, whilst surrounded by beautiful locations, strong environmental storytelling and the stirring, emotive music of composer Austin Wintory, the game brings out the sense of wonder and attachment one finds in travelling with others, even those we do not know when it is done for the same sacred purpose.

And, like the title suggests, Journey, just like many pilgrimages, is really about the journey, not the destination - to the point that when you complete the game and reach the destination in the midst of bright light and jubilant harmony, the game takes you right back to the beginning to do it all over again.  This idea of the journey itself being the significant part runs right through the idea of peregrinatio and it has become a feature of many pilgrimages, something we can see coming through even as far back as the Canterbury Tales, where a pilgrimage journey, rather than a particular place or time, is the backdrop for all of its varied stories.

Which brings me to my next category of games, the so-called ‘walking simulator’ and specifically the Chinese Room’s seminal example Everybody’s Gone to the Rapture.  The title might lead you to suspect that it has a Christian theme from the off, but, if anything, that’s a red herring, at least on any surface evaluation of the game.

In Everybody’s Gone to the Rapture, you wander around the deserted English village of Yaughton and its surrounding countryside, witnessing scenes from the recent past played out in silhouettes of golden light and slowly unravelling the series of events that lead to the village’s deserted state, eventually making your way to the place where all the events began, an observatory on the edge of the village.  It is a very haunting, peaceful and reflective game.  There is nothing one might consider action and you are almost entirely passive in your reception of the story, choosing only which paths you take around the location.  The soundtrack, by the excellent Jessica Curry, is a mixture of orchestral swells and English choral music and, combined with the beautiful countryside views, it lends the game a further emotional and meditative filter.  Even without the story, therefore, Everybody’s Gone… has the feeling of a kind of spiritual journey, and I personally found it to be an enriching and deeply moving experience.

There is an interpretation of the story which I found on the internet, however, that adds another layer to this spiritual perception of the game.  Through the course of the game you learn about how an alien presence referred to only as the Pattern, and appearing as the golden light you’ve been witnessing, had made its way into Yaughton and begun affecting and eventually disappearing all of the village’s inhabitants.  It’s certainly possible to view the Pattern as a malevolent alien force and the disappearances as acts of murder, but this isn’t how one character in the story - an American scientist who is an alien of another sort in this quiet English village - views the events.  For her, the Pattern is something beautiful and being united with the Pattern is not just desirable, but the ultimate way to be.  These two different attitudes to the Pattern are similar to attitudes you may find to the idea of God and Heaven, but there’s more to this spiritual interpretation than just that.

Throughout the game, you witness again and again how, before it ‘takes’ people, the Pattern brings out the conflicts and struggles of that person’s life and, from a certain point of view, resolves them.  It is, essentially, bringing about a kind of confession and reconciliation, analogous to the actions of the Spirit in Christian Theology, such that the person’s eventual acceptance and disappearance is not all that unlike a kind of Christian rapture after all.  This interpretation of the story, combined with the laidback exploration of Yaughton turns this virtual journey into a spiritual experience, a kind of digital peregrinatio, if approached with the right mindset.  And, as will all such journeys, it leaves you with a lot to ponder and reflect upon afterwards, something I still find myself doing, especially when listening again to its beautiful soundtrack.

Though Everybody's Gone… has a definite endpoint and goal, just like with Journey, it is the journey itself, the experiences you have along the way and that you take with you as you move on, that is really important.  This idea of experiencing a journey is especially important in the next category of games I will look at: open-world games.

In an open-world game, the game opens up a massive area and allows you the freedom to explore and stray from the path towards the next main objective, choosing instead to follow sidequests, hunt collectables or just enjoy the scenery.  When I suggested to someone that open-world games might be particularly important to the idea of pilgrimage in video games I was exploring, they said that they thought they would be particularly unsuitable because they are always distracting you away from the main task, but, I would argue, that is precisely what makes them some of the best candidates for this kind of virtual/spiritual experience.  In an open-world game, you are given the chance to make your own goals and to choose to experience the game world in spite of, or at the expense of, rather than dictated by, the game’s narrative or gameplay loops.  This enables a more meditative experience and the option to overlay what the game already provides with your own spiritual reflection.

At this point, it is worth considering how we might meditate and reflect on art generally.  Paintings have often been the object of or inspiration for spiritual reflection.  One can gaze on a beautiful painting - especially if it is of a religious subject, but even if not - and appreciate the ideas it contains, the creative talent that bore it and the God that lies behind all such creativity and beauty.  Video games need be no different, except that, often, they create an experience we can actually inhabit in a much more direct way than with a static artwork.  On top of this, they often utilise the creative talents of worldbuilders, those with the skill to create fictional realities that excite us and in which we can believe, if only for a time.  Worldbuilding, it should go without saying, is a creative talent particularly close, in certain ways, to the creative act of God Himself and the one, in my opinion, which depends most on that existing creation.  Thus, reflecting on the vistas of an open-world game is both similar to reflecting on any other work of art and also to reflection on creation itself, such as we might do during a physical pilgrimage.

For an example, I’ve picked a game I’ve only recently finished playing: Horizon Zero Dawn, in which you play a young woman named Aloy in a post-apocalyptic world of primitive tribes and massive, animal-like machines.  The game’s story takes Aloy on a massive journey across the remains of the American midwest and deals with the themes of multiculturalism, environmentalism, religion and identity and the dangers of technology.  In the course of the rich and often tragically haunting story, you learn that much of how the world appears in Aloy’s time is down to a complex terraforming AI which has rebuilt life on earth after manmade machines wiped it out entirely. Aloy’s home tribe have essentially mythologised this AI into a mother goddess, but Aloy, in a quest to learn who she really is, must learn the truth for herself.  This lends the game a kind of pilgrimage feel, as Aloy’s journey takes her to the ruined “shrines” and “temples” of this AI’s history in her efforts to understand that history and, in the process, put an end to a digital “demon” that threatens all life on earth.

On your way to these discoveries, however, you can also just explore the world and, whilst it is often fraught with danger, it has a breathtaking beauty and is permeated by the kind of stillness that one can only find in the natural world.  Reflecting on the artificial creation of this world, both in real life and in the terms of the narrative leads me to reflect on the creation of the real world, to appreciate all the more how it has come into being and to worship the creator who enabled that to happen.  Journeying through Horizon’s forests, deserts and mountainscapes also gave me the time and space to reflect on other things as well and, with things spiritual in mind, any trip into that world can become part of life’s peregrinatio.

There are other titles I could talk about which have been or contained elements of meaningful pilgrimages for myself, but about which I don’t have time to go into detail.  Games like ABZȖ, made by one of the designers who worked on Journey and with music by the same composer, which creates a mystical underwater journey of startling beauty and, with its environmentally-told story of a quest for a mystical, life-giving water (the abzȗ of the title) is full of spiritual metaphor.  Or like SOMA, an existential horror game set in the ruins of an underwater research station, which I played when I was just starting to understand that I might have an anxiety disorder.  The philosophical questions it posed about the nature of existence and human consciousness turned it into an unlikely pilgrimage of its own, one I found I desperately needed to complete.

Of course, none of these games is necessarily a true pilgrimage unless you make it so.  There needs to be intentionality to your approach to exploring their worlds and pondering on their meaning.  You could just take it all at face value, enjoy the experience and move on, and there would be nothing wrong with that per se, but if instead, you choose to inhabit their worlds and savour their beauty, to put yourself wholly inside the experience, bringing your own past experience and spirituality with you, then they have the potential to be far more than the sum of their parts and an opportunity - particularly relevant for those of us in various stages of lockdown - to experience the pilgrim’s journey from our living rooms.  The escapism they allow need not be an escape from the things that matter, but an escape from the business of life into something more profound: escape to a place where we can find refreshment for our souls.

On Priesthood

As part of the process of discernment - working through a sense of calling to the priesthood of the Church of England - I'm encouraged to read quite a lot and reflect on the things I've read.  Sometimes those reflections are little more than introspective book reviews, sometimes they go a little deeper and, sometimes, the best way to express how I've reflected on something I've read is through poetry.  Such is the case with my most recently read book, On Priesthood: Servants, Shepherds, Messengers Sentinels and Stewards, by Stephen Cottrell, Bishop of Reading.  As an examination of what it means to be a Priest in the Anglican tradition, it's really quite excellent, but one thing that stood out to me was Bishop Stephen's inclusion of poetry produced by those about to be ordained.  He emphasises the power of poetry as prayer and, as such, I thought it would be the best way to reflect on the book as a whole.  Here, then, is On Priesthood, my poetic response.

Faithful guardian of the flock

Entrusted,

Who leads,

Who protects,

Who guides and enables.

One who ripens the fruit

In others,

So the harvest may be gathered

In the world.

Faithful herald of the word

Delivered,

Who speaks,

Who teaches,

Who questions and provokes.

One who sows the seed

In each soil,

So the harvest may be gathered

In the world.

Faithful keeper of the mysteries

Revealed,

Who receives,

Who kindles,

Who treasures and polishes.

One who tends the fields

With care,

So the harvest may be gathered

In the world.

Faithful watcher of the horizons

Opened,

Who sees,

Who ponders,

Who reads and interprets.

One who quietly observes

The clouds

So the harvest may be gathered

In the world.

Faithful servant of the Lord

Humbled/Exalted,

Who waits,

Who loves,

Who empowers and lifts up.

One who gleans the sheaves

For the struggling,

So the harvest may be gathered

In the world.

Encouragements

This blog would have originally been published in May of 2014. For reasons I can't quite recall - perhaps because it was too personal - it never was, but the reading it now there are things it says which speak to me even six years later, so I publish it now as an artefact, as a memory, as a lesson.

Today marks two weeks since we debuted the Aberdeen Passion 2014 and began an unforgettable and intense two day experience of God's goodness, mercy and love as a diverse family of actors, singers, musicians and production crew. It has been a long two weeks.

Never before, to my recollection, have I experienced such a dramatic shift between an ecstatic high and a melancholic low. I went from the certain, emboldening, relational and joyous experience of God's Kingdom life, to being uncertain, afraid, lonely and sad and as each low day dragged into the next I realised that it wasn't really passing, certainly not in the way I had expected it to.

I was anxious much of the time, desperate to make human connections, especially with those who had had the same great experience and might be feeling something similar. I stayed glued to Facebook, feeding off the short-lived excitement of another comment or like, another photo posted. In between, especially in work, I would be hit by waves of apathy or despair. I relived moments from the play, both on stage and off, and mourned the fact that I was back in the real world, no longer doing something I loved with people I felt a connection to.

I cried. A lot. And a lot more than anyone knew.

And in the midst of this I knew God was with me. At first it was in the kind words of those who saw the Passion and wanted to thank us for our part in it. To a certain extent this was only to be expected, but people were so generous with their praise, it was more than I had truly anticipated.

Then it was in the way that, whilst I was worrying about leading services in my home church - and particularly praying in front of the congregation (something I've spoken about at length) - I had a couple of people telling me how much they enjoyed my prayers (specifically) and found them helpful, something even more have done since I actually led those services last weekend.

And there have been other encouragements too. In a week in which I had, in my desperation to connect, flaunted myself on social media, I never received anything but kind words. The song lyrics I had stuck in my head from the Passion turned out to contain the exact reminders I needed before leading services on Sunday. The sermon that evening was on Hope and Suffering and how, as Christians, we can and should live authentic lives where we do not lie about how we feel (part of the inspiration for this blog). This month's minister's letter was just a long list of encouraging verses. I've had specific verses (Jeremiah 29:11 foremost amongst them) lodged in my head since this began and my bible reading notes have led me through the end of the exodus, reminding me of God's faithfulness and his good plans for us.

I have been surrounded by blessings, from the weather this morning to the smiles on my family's faces when I come home each day. I have fewer reasons to doubt God is with me and on my side than ever before.

And yet I have railed at Him and questioned him. I have called Him cruel and hard. I have tried to cling to Him as to a rock in a storm and, because I was still getting wet, have doubted Him. I have been vain and selfish and inconsiderate of the pain of others. I have been a very poor witness.

These two realities have run alongside each other, each with a claim on me, but one has weakened with time, whilst the other has seemed to strengthen as I have paid it more attention.

I've used the past tense so far, but the truth it is it not yet over. I am still riding a low point, if not as bad a before. I am still prone to bouts of anxiety, or melancholy. I still have moments when I just want to cry. The waves of despair have mostly passed, but they left behind the flotsam dredged from the depths of my own personal abyss. I have always been susceptible to times of mild depression and anxiety is no stranger. These are facets of who I am, of the chemistry of my brain and they will not go away so easily. The aftermath of the Passion had unsettled the balance and I have to deal with that. The point here, however, is that I do not have to do so alone. God has remained by my side throughout, patiently waiting for me to turn to Him, to cry out, even to shout at Him, so that He can put His and around me.

The encouragement is that, far from being distant in our suffering, God is right there with us. And that helps. It is not a miracle cure. Though I belive such is possible, our witness is sometimes the greater in the long term because we've faced pain with God, rather than avoiding it through him, and so we carry on and cling to the one beside us.

Our Father

As part of my discernment journey, and exploring my understanding of liturgy, was asked to rewrite the Lord's Prayer in my own words. I really wanted to write it more poetically, to see if I could explore some aspects of my interpretation on they prayer in lyrical detail. The result is something between a poem and a psalm.

Our Father.

To Him who holds us in His arms

Like newborns; separate one,

Never distant one, may your name

Be held with with reverence, awe and fear;

Weighty, precious and unyielding:

Holy, holy, holy - God!

Though sovereign, reveal your sovereignty;

Though majestic, unveil your majesty:

As the oceans mirror the heavens,

May all bathe in your compassion, love and justice

And so reflect it.

Send us your manna, oh Lord;

Send us quail in the desert of our lives.

Give us honey from the comb

And wash the dust from our skin

As you dress us in white robes

And adorn our fingers with a ring.

May we remember your kindness, Servant King,

Lest we judge others for the dust they, too, tread.

Silence the voices that lure and beguile;

Silence the yearnings within

Which drive us into darkness

And the teeth of wolves.

And when the bramble and nettle lie across our path

May you, oh Shepherd,

Lead us safely back to pasture.

Yours is the crown, the rod and the scepter;

Yours is the strength to action

And your very being is raging fire

And rushing water

And soothing wind.

It has always been thus.

It will ever be so.

Amen.

Grief, Death and New Life

Ezekiel 37: 1-14, John 11: 1-45

The Church of England’s Revised Common Lectionary gives two rather lengthy readings for this Sunday, but, unlike so many such pairings, they have a clear common theme: resurrection.  The passages approach the concept of resurrection in very different ways. In the case of Lazarus’ resurrection, the story is, for the most part, very literal: Jesus raises a man from the dead, although his declaration that He Himself is ‘the resurrection’ takes the concept beyond mere bodily resurrection into the world of spirit and metaphor.  The resurrection vision which Ezekiel sees, however, is not to be taken literally at all.  God Himself explains the meaning of the vision and it’s clear that he is not talking about raising the people of Israel from physical death, but from the spiritual death they feel they are experiencing in exile, or, indeed, the spiritual death that had sent them into exile in the first place.

At this extraordinary time, when everything we do seems strange by context - for most of us, cooped up at home, watching the pandemic grow ever worse in the world outside - and when we are cut off from our traditional concepts of Church, there are a few comforting things that I take from these passages.

Firstly, there is the promise of “the shortest verse in the Bible”, John 11:34, which, in the NRSV linked above is translated ‘Jesus began to weep’.  In the NIV it’s famously just ‘Jesus wept.’  This verse is so often used to point to Jesus’ fragile humanity, how He experienced pain and suffering in incarnation just as all humans must.  At a time when many are anxious and fearful, when so many are losing loved ones very suddenly, when what appears to be a lottery of death hangs all about us, there is comfort in knowing that Jesus weeps, too.  Even knowing what is about to happen to Lazarus, He shares in the suffering of Lazarus’ sisters; He feels their pain as He feels His own at the loss of a friend.  Thus, as we suffer through this pandemic in many ways, we can draw near to Jesus and grieve with Him.

Secondly, there is the promise that death is not the end.  Jesus is the resurrection and the life and, as He says, ‘Those who believe in me, even though they die, will live.’  In Jesus there is hope, even in the face of death and, contrary to how many present it, it is an inclusive hope, one offered to any and all who put their trust in Him.  The only barrier, it seems, is our own decision to do otherwise.

Thirdly, and perhaps most significantly for the majority of us at this moment, there is a promise for the life we live now.  Though we may feel cut off from the Church we love and the familiar patterns of our faith through isolation, though we may feel we are going through a tough and empty time where all the joys of our life have been stripped away and God has never seemed further, though we may be utterly dead in faith and feel unable even to choose to believe in Jesus, the vision of Ezekiel gives us hope.

God is able to bring new life in all its forms and in all its fullness.  As the Psalmist wrote in Psalm 16, 'You show me the path of life. In your presence there is fullness of joy; in your right hand are pleasures forevermore.' God can put flesh on the bones of our life, breath in our bodies and allow us truly to live.  Right now, when we may feel enervated, apathetic or hopeless; that there is little for us worth doing or little we can contribute to our friends, families and communities; that ‘Our bones are dried up, and our hope is lost; we are cut off completely’, God is able to reach down to us in our living death and lift us up to be an army for His purposes.  And that is God’s work, not ours!  We don’t have to pick ourselves up by our bootstraps, nor despair at the work to be done, we just have to trust that God will do His work and thus enable us to serve him effectively.

And so we pray:

Father God,
Thank you that you are with us in our suffering
Through your Son, Jesus Christ,
That you, too weep and grieve,
That, though death may come for us all,
In you it does not have to be the end.
And now, as we struggle to find the energy
To face many days cut off from life as we have known it,
Give us new life and new energy and new faith,
So that we may serve you well now and always.
In the name of Him who weeps with us,
Our saviour, Jesus Christ,
Who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit,
One God, now and forevermore,
Amen.

Going Viral

We live in unprecedented times. Even if one is to look at past pandemics, like the Bubonic Plague, or past events that transformed national life, like World War II, the culture we live in is so far-removed from those times as to make any comparison shallow and unhelpful. The world has never faced anything like this before and to have the very foundations of normality pulled out from under us and life reset to its basic elements is an unsettling thing for many of us. Much discussion has taken place already concerning the nature of the crisis we face and the changes it must wreak upon our lives - after all, many of us don’t have much else to do now we’re locked up in our homes for the majority of the day. I’ve seen discussions about how this will impact our view of economics in the future; how it might alter relationships and our appreciation of friends and family; how it helps us to value the most essential services we are offered in life, like medical care or the provision of groceries. People have made much of our suddenly reduced impact on the environment and, yes, there has been an ongoing conversation about what this means for the Church, which is my concern. With church services across our and many other nations suspended indefinitely and the Archbishop of Canterbury calling on Christians to be Church in a radically different way, I have found myself reflecting on what this might mean. How can the Church be radically different when it cannot meet in any traditional way? What can replace the usual Sunday services or weekly Bible studies? Are there ways to be Church online that we haven’t really explored yet? I am convinced that there are, that the way forward for the Church at this time, and as something that must be ongoing for many of us even when this crisis is over, is to be found in expressing our faith in new creative and practical ways - online for now, but unleashed onto the world as well just as soon as we can leave our homes. I don’t know how this will look in practice, however, and I’m not convinced anyone else really does either. I think, first and foremost, we all need to look at the gifts God has given us and ask ourselves (and God) how we might best use those gifts in our current situation. Only once Christians start to do this en masse will this radical “new” vision for the Church become clear. I put ‘new’ in quotation marks there for a reason. I’ve been hearing talk of new opportunities for the Church, when, actually, what I see are the old paths rarely taken becoming the only options once the well-trodden ways have been closed off to us. I was directed by my ADO to Psalm 137, ‘By the rivers of Babylon…’, and found much there to consider in this current situation. There are obvious comparisons to be made between the Jewish community in exile in Babylon and the Church in exile from its buildings during this pandemic. Certainly, whilst Christians everywhere are greeting this new way of living in very different ways, some of us must be taking this enforced absence from Sunday rituals very badly. Are we sitting down and weeping by the living-room sofa as we remember Holy Communion? It might sound silly put that way, but for some this level of unsettling change will be very upsetting and whatever action the Church takes to continue being God’s people in this strange exile, we must consider how to care for and encourage those who are finding it difficult. Similarly, whether we realise it or not, many of us will be clinging on to old ways of doing things, just as the writer of Psalm 137 seems to be in the second stanza. Certainly, the immediate response to the closing of churches has been to recreate what we know of church online through live-streaming. There’s nothing wrong with that at all and, indeed, it will prove very helpful for many of us, but I am convinced that we will soon discover that that alone does not constitute Church and we may find ourselves longing for something more and grieving what we have lost. The Psalmist, too, laments over the loss of Jerusalem and fears forgetting it as we might fear whether it will ever be the same again after the pandemic has passed. He asks ‘How can we sing the Lord’s song in a foreign land?’ and we too must ask ourselves this question. How can we sing the Lord’s song with social-distancing, in self-isolation, in lockdown? The exiled Jews found ways to answer that question. The exile was a period of incredible spiritual growth for the Jewish people, with much scriptural material written and revised during this time as well as many talmudic writings as commentary. Whilst we mustn’t pressure ourselves into doing more than we can in a time which will be trying in lots of unexpected ways - strained relationships, finding time and energy to educate our children, worrying about work and finances, etc. - there is no reason that we too can’t find some time to grow in our spirituality, gaining new insights into scripture, into the way God is working around and through us, learning to love God more and our fellow humans too along the way. Perhaps we will find Psalms like 137 helpful to consider during a time of readjustment. We might at first relate with its picture of fear and sorrow, but by asking its questions, by hurling them at God if necessary, hopefully we can learn to move on. Here I find Romans 12 verses one and two helpful. “I appeal to you therefore, brothers and sisters, by the mercies of God, to present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God, which is your spiritual worship. Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your minds, so that you may discern what is the will of God—what is good and acceptable and perfect.” In the light of our current circumstances, I read this rather differently than I have done in the past. I am very conscious that it is by God’s mercies - the way that he condescends (comes down with us) to be with us in our daily lives - that we might be able to become living sacrifices and live out our faith - our being Church without the usual Sunday worship rituals. Indeed, this verse talks about spiritual worship, which doesn’t require bricks and mortar, or a worship band, or even a preacher, at all. I am reminded also of Hosea 6:6, “For I desire steadfast love and not sacrifice, the knowledge of God rather than burnt offerings.”, or Psalm 51: 16-17, “For you have no delight in sacrifice; if I were to give a burnt offering, you would not be pleased. The sacrifice acceptable to God is a broken spirit; a broken and contrite heart, O God, you will not despise.” Both speak of relating to and worshipping God outside of the traditional religious practices of the day and so our living sacrifice might also be a living liturgy or a living prayer - turning our lives into the act of worship we are no longer allowed to perform in the way to which we have become accustomed. And that living sacrifice, that liturgy of our lives, is also to be something novel, something transformed and renewed. We need not conform to the patterns of our religious traditions any more than to those of this world. There is much they can teach us of course and much we can borrow and use - I’ve been learning much from exploring Celtic Christianity, for example - but they do not need to constrict us. We have the opportunity now, as we have always had, to worship God and to serve His kingdom in new ways, with new creativity and new love guided by the Spirit. As I see it, the Church is always on the edges of Heaven and Earth, always at the point of standing up, jumping in, taking action. Right now that image is more clear to me than ever before, because all the old patterns we might have fallen back upon have been taken away from us, thus now, now we can perhaps show the world something new and in so doing reveal the most ancient of truths. And so, hopefully, I write these reflections and share them publicly in ways I might not a few weeks ago, because this situation emboldens me. This is but one part of the Church we might become, but I do what I can see to do and hope to have my eyes opened further the deeper into this time of darkness we go.

People are Stupid; Try Not to Throw Rocks at Them

I want this to be a short post, but I'm not sure how easy that'll be. You see the issue I'm here to discuss is sort about words and how we use them, and, in an effort to use mine carefully, I might end up going on a bit. (I've been known to). But then again, it's not really about words at all, so much as it is about the intentions behind those words and the consideration we put, not only into our use of them, but also into the lives of those we direct them towards, or against.

I've read a lot of things online lately about social justice issues and the way those who fight to conquer them, or even just raise awareness, battle against detractors and, too often, each other. The conversation tends towards the vicious or the dismissive, but it is rarely kind and no matter the consideration of the particular issue being discussed, there is very little consideration for others.

Consider this, for example: the way actress and comedienne Leslie Jones has been criticised for her role in the new Ghostbusters film - a sassy, streetwise transport working who stands in sharp contrast to her three white, super-intelligent scientist counterparts - despite the fact that the film is, otherwise, a sort of feminist Holy Grail with all four of its principal protagonists being female.

Or perhaps you might want to look at the way Zoe Saldana has been treated for her role in the forthcoming biopic about Nina Simone?

Or, for something a little more recent, the response to the massive showing of solidarity in response to the Brussels terror attacks when there has been little to no recognition of similar (often worse) attacks in non-European countries.

Now, don't get me wrong, every single one of these is an example of people highlighting entirely legitimate issues. It is worrying that the one person of colour in the new Ghostbusters is portrayed in such a stereotypical way (although it is also worth pointing out that we haven't seen the film yet, so all such criticism, however justified, should be prepared for the possibility, however small, that the filmmaker's decisions are vindicated). It is worrying that the role of Nina Simone has not been given to a dark-skinned black actress instead of Saldana, who has obviously been chosen as a more marketable proposition. It is worrying that the media and social media response to terror in western European countries is so much greater than similar events in non-European (and especially Muslim) countries.

These are genuine issues, and people are right to highlight them as part of the effort to make the world a better, fairer place in the future. But where, might I ask, is the kindness?

People interested in social justice are very often criticised by more right-winged thinkers for complaining about everything, for coming across as entitled, prudish and against all freedom of expression. Generally, I disagree with this assertion. It is completely right to critique those aspects of our culture that reinforce harmful stereotypes or fail to represent large portions of our population the way they see themselves. Everyone has a right to media representation, to be recognised as being part of this world and the events that happen in it. Sometimes, however, I fear that the critics of 'Social Justice Warriors', as they like to call us, have some fair points to make.

You see, we can't seem to stop fighting each other. Another prime example would be the response to the #OscarsSoWhite controversy. No sooner had black actors highlighted the terrible lack of recognition they were receiving at this year's Oscars than every other social justice issue was being raised in counterpoint. Once again, they were all important issues that deserved attention, but they were each being raised as if their pet issue was the only one that really mattered and that everyone else was just being whiny and unreasonable. None of them seemed to see the irony, nor did they appear to understand that all of the issues they were raising were of equal importance. The black community was right to complain. Women were right to complain. The LGBTI community was right to complain. About the only complaint that wasn't valid was the assertion that #OscarsSoWhite was racist to white people, but that's so rarely a legitimate complaint that I don't think anyone (other than the usual half of the internet) was taking Charlotte Rampling seriously anyway.

This is a problem because we're all human. The very thing we're trying to highlight to others, that we're all equal and we all matter and deserve representation, because we are all the same species is the very thing which seems to prevent us from seeing beyond our pet complaints to understand the validity of another's, or to recognise that, just because there's more than one issue doesn't mean that people are wrong to support the one which doesn't happen to be your own. We're all hypocrites and, indeed, our intense, universal desire to call out hypocrisy in others is the single most hypocritical thing about us.

The vitriol launched at the new Ghostbusters was inappropriate, not because it's necessarily right to portray Leslie Jone's character as a stereotype, but because the film should still be celebrated for the issue on which it has made progress.

The attacks against Saldana, including from Simone's own estate, were inappropriate, not because it isn't awful that the film studio chose a lighter-skinned actress, but because Saldana should still be lauded for her success and popularity in spite of the fact that she isn't white.

In these issues people need to learn the different between criticism in the literary sense, which can reveal our sensitivity and concern for particular people groups who we feel are not being represented fairly, and attacks which reveal only the darker side of human nature.

The same is also true of the response to the public outpouring of grief over the Brussels attacks, in that we should not be attacking people for mourning such an event, but instead, we need to hold the media to account for the way it reports world events.

Above all else, however, we just need to learn to be kinder. We need to be kinder in listening to another's point of view, kinder in how we choose to represent others in what we create and kinder in how we deal with social issues that, far from conflicting, are all supposed to be working together to make the world a better place. By all means be angry, but restrain your anger when dealing with other 's who, ultimately, want much the same thing.

And in case you think this is just another self-righteous article about how we all need to be more X or Y, then let me add this: I need to be kinder - much, much kinder.

I was angry when I saw the response to last week's terror attacks. I was furious that people were recolouring their profile pictures and lighting up world monuments to support Belgium when Turkey had just suffered two attacks on a similar scale and hardly a word had been spoken about them. I was ready to rant with the best of them about the hypocrisy of it all, and then I read a friend's status update, also furious, reminding me that she had every right to be in mourning over Brussels. We were both angry and, in a way, we were both right, but her anger was fuelled by the lack of kindness and consideration from people like me.

As should really be no surprise, Jesus has the best to say on this topic when he tells us to love one another. He was certainly not devoid of anger at the wrongs of the world - his spectacular clearing of moneychangers and traders in the Temple courtyard is proof enough of that - and he frequently highlighted hypocrisy in those who argued with him, but he was kind to the most unlikely people and, as the only human ever to hold the real moral high-ground, he sets an example we must struggle and strive to follow. He tells us to "love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you" (Matthew 5:44), and "love your neighbour as yourself" (Mark12:31). The apostle Paul also reminds us that "love is patient, love is kind", "it does not dishonour others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs." (1 Corinthians 13:4,5)

If all this sounds impossible to attain, then that's no surprise too. Jesus concluded the first passage I quoted by saying this: "be perfect, therefore, as your heavenly Father is perfect." (Matthew 5:48) The kind of attitude we need when we seek a fairer, more just world is no less than that of our perfect God himself, but however should we achieve such a lofty goal?

Then Jesus said to his disciples, “Truly I tell you, it is hard for someone who is rich to enter the kingdom of heaven. Again I tell you, it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for someone who is rich to enter the kingdom of God.” When the disciples heard this, they were greatly astonished and asked, “Who then can be saved?” Jesus looked at them and said, “With man this is impossible, but with God all things are possible.” 

Matthew 19:23-26

I may be making a case for us all to be kinder, and I truly believe that we need to be, but the Bible makes it clear that this isn't something we can achieve through any merely human teaching, nor through effort of will alone, but only with the help of the Holy Spirit of God.  I look at the world and I look at myself and I am constantly reminded of just how much we need God to achieve anything of worth.  The more secular our morality becomes, the more it will self-destruct as we tear each other apart in our 'righteous' anger.

Yes, people really are stupid, and we're mean, and short-sighted and full of hatred and a thousand other things, but as Jesus himself said, "let any one of you [that's us] who is without sin be the first to throw a stone..." (John 8:7)

On THAT Speech.

Last week the House of Commons held a lengthy, eleven and a half hour debate on whether or not the United Kingdom should extend it's air strikes against the organisation variously known as (or translated as) Islamic State, ISIS, ISIL and Daesh.  By all accounts it started slowly, with the Labour party in particular focussing unhelpfully on David Cameron's equally unhelpful comment to the 1922 committee the day before, describing Labour leader Jeremy Corbyn and others who would vote against such strikes as terrorist sympathisers.  It took a long time to get into the real debate about the practical and moral implications of the decision being made and it seemed like opinion was swaying one way and another for many MPs.  You most likely know all this.

Then, towards the end of the debate, Shadow Foreign Secretary Hilary Benn, son of the famous left-wing politician Tony Benn, made his speech.  At around fourteen minutes in length it did not seek to run over the allotted time, but managed to fit quite a lot of content in nonetheless.  Supposedly Benn had been writing it during the debate and did not think it was up to much himself, but his principles demanded he make in nonetheless.  The result was rapturous applause from much of the Commons and,  most notably, the final swaying of opinion towards voting in favour of air strikes for many who had been undecided, or, at the very lest, uncertain.  It was lauded in tweets and in news articles for its clear, yet simple rhetoric, its compassionate opening and emotive conclusion.  People were even commenting - within minutes - that Benn was now the clear candidate to replace Corbyn as Labour leader.

It went the other way too of course.  Many hard-left supporters were decrying Benn as a traitor and much abuse was subsequently heaped upon him and upon the 65 other Labour MPs who voted for the strikes.  This was hardly fair and references made to his father birling in his grave were particularly underhanded (not least because it seems like Tony Benn would have been very proud, even in disagreement), but at the same time I can understand their anger - indeed, before I had heard the speech I felt some of it myself - for here was a man changing minds and being hailed as some kind of political apotheosis upon the basis of just one speech, and, most notably, primarily on the quality of the speech itself, not, necessarily, the argument being made

Here's that speech in full:

There is no denying, even from the position of one who disagreed (and continues to disagree) with the motion of which it was in favour, that this is a good speech.  Benn hits all the right notes, from emphasising his friendship and  respect for Jeremy Corbyn at the beginning, through making a clear moral case for some kind of action, to even including arelatively short, but powerful argument in favour of that action being the extension of British air strikes into Syria.  There is much that he says that I can agree with and it is clear that he is making his speech out genuine principled belief that this truly is the right thing to do.  Part of the problem for me is that the argument he makes, and which persuaded many, is disproportionate in its components, and in the impact they are intended to have.

The strongest and lengthiest part of his argument is the moral case for action against ISIS (my preferred acronym, incidentally, since they all essentially mean the same thing and this is by far the easiest to remember, although it does make them sound a little too much like Bond villains).  There is no doubt that when he makes this argument, both in the main body of his speech and in his highly emotive conclusion, the vast majority of the house must have been in agreement with him, even if they knew he was leading them towards points of contention.  It is, of course, completely right that we should do something to act against terror and against those who cause so much suffering and death.  It is absolutely right to listen to UN Security Council resolution 2249 (paragraph five of which Benn quotes) and take all necessary measures against the Islamic State, but it is important to note that this is not necessarily an argument in favour of extended air strikes, or even for continuing the strikes we are already making in Iraq.

Benn does address this, of course.  At about 7:40 in the video above he switches from making a moral case for action to making a specific case for extended air strikes.  This continues only for another four and a half minutes and includes within it numerous points in agreement with those who propose alternative measures to the air strikes.  He even makes it clear that there are many reasons why other MPs may still choose to oppose the strikes, a step which, whilst conciliatory, actually undermines his argument quite a bit.  The points he makes in favour of the strikes are good ones, but left out of the context of the many arguments against strikes, are not necessarily convincing.  They certainly do no answer concerns of increasing radicalisation, or the fact that western intervention in the Middle East over the last fourteen years (if not much longer) is a major reason for the rise of ISIS in the first place, nor do they address legitimate concerns that, far from increasing national security, increased bombing of ISIS targets may well increase the threat of terror against our nation.

Of course it's quite natural that Benn would leave these things out - they do not work in favour of his argument and it's possible he himself does not consider them strong enough arguments in opposition, but their absence, in the context of his speech makes his argument seem stronger than many believe it to be.

But the real coup de grace is yet to come.  The final two minutes of the speech, addressed to the Labour party and evoking the fight against fascism in the early twentieth century, is the point where I lose all sympathy for Mr. Benn's arguments and begin to wonder if we need to react much more strongly against rhetoric in modern debate.

You see Benn's concluding remarks are designed to stir up emotions: pride in the Labour party's achievements and principles, hatred towards fascism, guilt for inaction, and many others besides.  By dredging up comparisons to the fights against Franco, Mussolini and, of course, Hitler, Benn is aiming to stir up a kind of self-righteous and patriotic pride which is the inevitable consequence of harking back to that era.  Never mind that, once again, it is only an argument in favour of action, not for the specific action for which Benn is calling on his colleagues to vote.  Never mind that, whether it is right to call them fascists or not, comparisons of ISIS to the right-wing movements of Europe in the early 20th century - and similarly the kinds of action which are needed to be taken against them - are completely inappropriate.

That Benn reaches this point, at the end of his speech, at the end of the debate, is actually vaguely amusing.  It's reminiscent of that which is known as Godwin's law, stating that "as an online discussion grows longer, the probability of a comparison involving Nazis or Hitler approaches 1".  A corollary of this law also states that the first person to make such a comparison automatically loses the argument.  I think there are good reasons for adopting such a corollary and Benn's use of such a comparison last Wednesday evening demonstrates it as well as any I could cite.  The issue is that such a comparison fails to appeal to reason - it appeals to emotion, to patriotism and to the threat of being accused of fascism yourself.

There is a difference, of course, between an online discussion, where the Nazi comparison is usually the last resort of a deeply frustrated and angry individual and, more often than not is a direct insult to their opponent, and Benn's speech, which is calm, carefully worded and well thought out.  I fear the impact, however, is much the same and that the insult of the online discussion forum is still implied in Benn's words.  He does not say so outright, perhaps would not even believe he had implied it, but within his comparison is the accusation that those Labour MPs who would vote against the strikes would not be 'doing their bit' against fascism, that they would be allowing 'the Nazis' to get away with it, that - despite his opening argument against Cameron's direct statement to the same effect - they were somehow on the wrong side.

And yet, as I have already said, this speech was praised for all the things I have just discussed.  That's because it was was a collection of very well-chosen words, delivered just as skilfully, and in the world of debate - indeed in its long history, since the time of the ancient Greeks - how an argument is made matters more than whether or not it is a good argument, or even correct when put under scrutiny.  It is the same in the Houses of Parliament as it is in our newspapers, blogs (this one included), debating societies, and even our daily conversations an arguments with each other.

Of course some of this is just natural human behaviour.  Words are powerful.  If you've read any of my blogs before you'll know how much I believe in the power of words to make real, important change.  We can be swayed by words very easily if we're not thinking critically about what we're hearing and I know I am just as guilty as the rest of humanity when it comes to taking a speech or a text at face value rather than spending the time to question it and decide whether there is any truth contained behind the careful turns of phrase.  If we're really to have a nation which engages politically, and political class which represents us and the issues of the world with full truthfulness and integrity, then I think it's time we started to react against rhetoric in our debates.  We need to train our citizens to be more critical, to engage with arguments at all levels and to make sure that, no matter how impressed they are by the works of great word-smiths, they do not let it sway them into making decisions for the wrong reasons, or not backed up by sufficient evidence.

And the next time you hear someone make a Nazi comparison - don't applaud them until your sure it fits.

Further Reading:

Were you carried away by Hilary Benn's 'electrifying' speech?  This is political theatre, not democracy. - Rachel Shabi, The Independent.

Daniel: The Practicalites of Living in the World.

This was a talk I wrote for a service at a sheltered housing complex on Sunday 8th November.  The passage it's all about is Daniel chapter one.  Daniel is probably my favourite book in the Bible.

Christians seem to love metaphors about ships.  I’ve heard a few in my time, but these are the two that particularly stand out for me.  Firstly, ‘A ship should be in the water, but the water should not be in the ship’, which is a metaphor for how Christians need to be active in the world and yet not influenced or corrupted by it.  The second is similar: ‘A ship in the harbour is safe, but ships aren’t built to stay there’, a metaphor for how Christians often like to stay in their comfort zones, or church bubbles, rather than step out into the world and be seen doing the things Christ has sent us to do.  These are good images - they help to clarify an issue God’s people have had to face since Abraham was first asked to leave his home and head for Canaan; they put the problem into terms we can easily understand and remember.  They do not, however, make the problem any easier.

Not only did Daniel and his friends face this problem, it defines most of what we know about them and their deeds from the Bible.  These were handsome and talented young men with good prospects and good connections whose entire lives had just been ravaged by the storms of death, destruction and exile.  The harbour of their youth had been pillaged and burned and their ships blown out to sea against their will.  They were in genuinely terrible circumstances - circumstances that might be hard to understand or even imagine for those of us who have lived quiet lives in the relative safety of western civilisation.

But though they were captured by an enemy who had destroyed their nation, robbed its wealth and humiliated their religion, they were themselves still considered valuable - valuable to that enemy and valuable to God.  God had given them many talents and skills, knowledge and wisdom, as well as health and good looks, and they were desirable as part of the elite servants of the court of King Nebuchadnezzar.  It’s clear from the way the passage is worded that this is what God intends - he wants his people to serve amongst those who are not his people, to use the gifts, talents and abilities that he has developed within them for the good of those around them, regardless of who those people might be and where they stand with the Almighty - and to do so very well.

It is a challenge for our daily lives now.  How does God want me to serve those who do not know him today?  Which groups of people, hostile to the gospel, do I need to be part of?  How can I use the talents he has given me to make the world a better place for everyone in it?  How can I do that so that God is glorified?  It is something we need to ask ourselves all the time, wherever we might be, for there are always ways we can serve others, no matter what our circumstances.  If we ask God to show us what those ways are, he will do so and he will make sure we are equipped for the task.

So, Daniel, Hananiah, Mishael and Azariah are taken out the frying pan of their recent trauma and put straight into… well, into a pretty cushy training regime, at least, as much as such things could be.  They were to be treated well, given further education and allowed to eat the royal food.  What a privilege!

For many people this would come as a great relief and if life had looked like it was going to be hard living among this heathen nation, they might now choose to see it as an opportunity for personal gain.  After all, the God they served had sent them there, why not just follow these new, Babylonian ways and enjoy their lifestyle instead?

And, at first, it seems like Daniel and his friends have accepted this.  They are given new names - Babylonian names and, despite the fact that their God-fearing Hebrew names had now been replaced by names which honoured the Babylonian gods, there is no evidence in the rest of the book of Daniel to suggest that they argued about this or demanded to be referred to by anything other than their new names.  Daniel continues to be referred to as Daniel, although it’s still pointed out later in the book that he was also known as Belteshazzar, but his friends are actually better known by most Christians as Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego, names which, in all likelihood, honour the Babylonian gods Aku, Merodach and Nebo.  How could they have accepted such a defilement?

And, yet, they cannot have simply decided to accept their new lives as Babylonians, with all the idolatry that that entailed, for we see that there was problem for Daniel.  The exact reasons for his concern are not stated in the passage, but it was clear that eating the King’s food was not appropriate for Jews.  The meat was almost certainly not kosher and it may well have been offered to Babylonian idols beforehand.  Here Daniel draws a line.  How the people around him choose to identify him is one thing, and a thing he might not have had much say in, but what he took into his own body - what, essentially, forms part of his real, personal identity that he could control and he was not going to defile himself according to the Babylonian ways.

And it was a risky course of action to take.  Turning down luxuries offered by the King was hardly the most polite thing to do in an already perilously delicate situation.  Yes, these young men were valuable, but they were still captives and almost certainly thought of as property.  To turn down the offered food could easily be considered an insult and if they had damaged their health in any way by doing so then it would have been like damaging one of the King’s prized possessions.  To make matters worse, as the story unfolds we see that the other young men may well have been restricted to the same diet - young men without Daniel’s particular principles who were probably enjoying all the King’s meat.  It was a path with the potential to make many enemies and, though the passage doesn’t state it in chapter one, it’s clear that Daniel’s god-honouring ways earned him more than his fair share of resentment through the years.

And yet, despite the risks, choosing this course shows great shrewdness on Daniel’s part, especially as we see how things unfold and God’s hand is seen in the favour of the official.  Daniel knows when to pick his battles.  When faced with a world which was opposed to his God, he knew when to let the world think it was winning and when to take a stand for what was right, whatever the consequences of that might eventually be.  We might not think we would be able to make such judgement calls, but Daniel’s wisdom didn’t develop on his own, it was a gift from God and we too can ask God to give us the wisdom to work out our, sometimes messy, lives in the midst of a complicated world which refuses to recognise him.

Which brings us to the final point of this passage.  As we see Daniel and his friends carted off to Babylon amidst the most terrible of circumstances, as we see them chosen to serve the king, educated, treated well, given heathen names, as we see them defy their captors and prove the goodness of God, so too do we see the true hero of Daniel chapter one - God - doing all the real legwork in the story.  There is no doubt for the writer of this passage that God is in charge, that the horrible situation Daniel and his friends had to endure was ultimately God’s doing - in his great work to punish his people and bring them back to worshipping him, but so too was their skill and knowledge, the favour of those around them and, in the end, the triumph of their faithful response over the idolatry of the world they had been put in.  God is always in charge, and no matter how tough the situation we are facing at any given time, we can be assured that God knows what he is doing, he has it all in hand and he will work out his purposes, according to his will, for his glory.

Daniel and his friends go on to glorify God in many ways, bringing the thoughts and eyes of the most powerful men in the world at the time right to the base of his throne, that in all things God’s sovereignty might not be challenged.  That challenges us: challenges us to serve in a world where God is rejected, hated even, with the love that Jesus Christ commanded, challenges us to have wisdom and discernment to discover just where the line is that we must not cross, the line that separates a faithful, godly life from the idolatrous world.  But it is also a comfort to us, for we know that, with God in charge, he will give us everything we need to face those challenges and that, in the end, he will be glorified, even through our lives.