A Fekete Duna

A week ago I was still in Hungary, enjoying the weather in my favourite city, Budapest, and feeling the high of a week spent serving God with the teenagers of the Tivadar English Bible Camp.  My mind was full of contrasts, however.

Hungary is a land with a rich and complex history and one which, even now, seems to struggle with the weight of it all.  There is a lot of prejudice and resentment from the events of the last century, mirrored, I'm sure, in many of the neighbouring countries, where borders were drawn up on a map in Versaille and people's lives were changed, ostensibly for their better.  Now, in the second decade of the 21st Century, it is clear that much of that has failed and only worsened tensions between ethnic groups, but I doubt that things would be any better at all if the borders had not been moved.  It seems to me that the problem with Eastern and Central Europe, and indeed the rest of the world, is not this group, or that group, to whom blame can be apportioned, but, in fact, the problem is everyone, ourselves included.  We're the sinners who want things all our own way and who distrust those with different lifestyles, cultures and agendas.  As long as we remain in our sin that will never change, however you draw the separation lines.

Last Sunday evening I had a unique opportunity to take a walk through the centre of Budapest on my own and got to do some writing on the steps of the Fisherman's Bastion on Várhegy, looking down on the Danube and the Parliament building over in Pest.  With this view and these thoughts (and others) in mind, and with a week's worth of editing and honing of both the words and the ideas behind them, this is what I came up with.

Do remember, as you read it, that I love Hungary, and Budapest especially, but just because I love something does not mean I cannot see its flaws.  Any errors in historical, or geographical accuracy are entirely my own.

A Fekete Duna (The Black Danube)

The river is black now.  By day she flows a murky, greenish brown, and Strauss is proven false.  Swimmers brave the beaches of Margit Sziget and there are parties by the banks, but though the breeze is fresh and the view a pearl of Europe, you cannot escape that filmy surface, that unclean sheen, that tepid, ancient lie.

But the river is black now; lacquered gold where street lamps cast their gaze.  Her bridges arc in filigree chords and all the monuments of greatness - squandered and taken - stand out like rich topaz on a field of starry black.  Tourists smile and point, immortalise themselves on her banks and spans.  They are backlit by splendour, eyes starry in the flash. Beneath, pleasure boats cruise past like they're sliding on glass, through the shade of their Grand Prince, beneath the chains and the roaring lions, towards freedom (hid) and the distant, stolen sea.  They slice through their own reflections and are gone.

But the river is black now - she frames her city like a mirror in a darkened room, defining light and shade and nothing more.  She cuts between classes, the high and low, between those elevated and those levelled; West and East.  Spots of colour on her banks tell of burger chains and clubs, vending machines and hotel bars.  Trams weave by like the ghosts of regimes past.

But the river is black now, so the old man on the hill does not watch her, nor remember how they threw him to her grasp; the red wake he left behind him in his spiked and sudden coffin.  The river stained, the bishop sainted, yet above a verdant lady stands, her gaze upon that long, dark ribbon: not just Gellért's blood at all.  How could she glance away from one she claims, twice now, to have freed?

But the river is black now - on her banks lie many shoes, cast-off and cast iron: forgotten reminders of a forgettable night, or a frozen memory of an unmentionable one.  Who wishes to recall such cold amidst the summer heat, or the black-clad ice that flowed through the city and turned the river white, then red.

But the river is black now - no one sees those shapes lurking in its shadows, picking scraps and making do midst the waste and grime, lost and forgotten in its flow like the souls in back alleys begging for change, or the woman selling flowers to tourists, back bent and humbled even as the roses stand tall and proud.

Because the river is black now, and every step forward seems a step further back.  All this progress, like the Danube, merely lies.

Nostalgia, or VII things I want from a Final Fantasy VII remake.

Ah, even the logo makes me feel nostalgic...

I've been feeling particularly nostalgic for various media this summer.  From the trailers for Star Wars: The Force Awakens a couple of months ago, making me dig out my Gamecube to play Rogue Leader and read old (and now non-canonical) novels by Timothy Zahn, through Jurassic World making me feel like a nine year old again, to the gameplay footage of Rise of the Tomb Raider that has me working my way through my first complete replay of Tomb Raider: Anniversary since it was released eight years ago.  (I'd have been playing the original Tomb Raider instead, actually, but it was further away at the time I felt I needed it most).

All of these franchises are much-beloved and have a particularly special place in my heart - taking up hours of my childhood, adolescence and student years - but perhaps the biggest nostalgia-inducing news of the summer was that Square Enix are actually going ahead and remaking Final Fantasy VII, something fans have been clamouring for since the JRPG giant used the opening of their most iconic game as a tech demo for the PS3, over a decade ago.  Final Fantasy VII remains my favourite video game of all time, and perhaps through sheer force of nostalgia alone, is one of my favourite stories of all time.

Would you entrust the fate of the planet to these weirdos?

I love the characters.  The main hero, Cloud Strife, is a callous mercenary type who doesn't appear to care about anything, but who SPOILERS turns out to be a seriously insecure man-child with an identity crisis.  There are two female leads, one a carefree flower girl with a tragic past, the other a hardened fighter who just might have the key to unlocking Cloud's true self.  And then there are also the real oddballs, like Red XIII, a wolf-lion thing whose grandfather is inexplicably an old man who floats through the air, and Cait Sith, a robotic cat/moogle doll controlled by a mysterious third party with their own mysterious agenda END SPOILERS.  It's one of the most eclectic and colourful casts in any role playing game and it's an odd mixture that somehow just works.

Aeris takes urban gardening to new levels.

I also love the world, which, like the characters, is a slightly bizarre amalgamation of anime tropes, both serious and surreal, ranging from cyberpunk (Midgar) and steampunk (Nibelheim), through the colourfully weird (the Gold Saucer or Costa del Sol) to the ancient and mysterious (Temple of the Ancients).  It has a glorious mix of completely incompatible technologies, revelling in the mechanical details of cars, trains, ships and airships whilst gods and demons materialise out of the air.  Its aesthetic is as comfortable amidst complex networks of piping and CG schematics as it is in the quiet of a forest, or a lonely mountainside.  Perhaps Aeris' garden, holding on to life amidst the ruins of an old church, is as good a summation of Final Fantasy VII's unique setting as any.

And I love the music.  VII's soundtrack is probably not Nobuo Uematsu's greatest work.  That honour might well go to the soundtrack to IX, which manages to blend it's themes and allusions seamlessly amidst a deliberately archaic style.  VII's soundtrack is, however, my favourite and it's all part of the same peculiar and heady mix that pervades every other part of the game.  Never has a synthesised game soundtrack made me feel so much, nor so perfectly conjured up the world it accompanies.

But all that is likely to change - not literally, the FFVII I know and love is, in fact, going nowhere at all - with the advent of the remake.  Modern graphics and gameplay styles will, of necessity, be implemented into a current-gen re-imagining of any 32 bit classic.  Current aesthetic trends will most likely win over the older ones that VII is in tune with.  Square Enix's recent history with the Final Fantasy series will doubtlessly be evident in some, or all of the way the game looks, feels and plays.  Change is a-coming, but it won't all necessarily be for the worse.  With that in mind, here, at last, are the seven things I'd really like to see in a remake of Final Fantasy VII

1) A soundtrack which isn't fully orchestrated.

Let's start with this one.  It's asking a lot, I know, but I'd really like to see at least some synthesised music, or at the very least some experimental instrumentation used in the soundtrack for the new VII.  I'm a big fan of the Final Fantasy concerts that have been played over the years and like an orchestrated arrangement as much as the next guy, but I don't really want them in the game itself.

These guys do a brilliant job, but they might not be needed all the time.

There's something about the arranged versions I've heard that make them sound too much like they come from our world and not enough like they're from VII's.  The synth in particular is a really big part of why VII's world sounds so grungy and  industrial. Any new soundtrack has to take that into account.  The music to the CG film sequel, Advent Children, went part of the way, including modern instrumentation and a nice use of electric guitar in its version of the iconic One Winged Angel, but I'd like to see the remake take things further, regressing a little if it has to to keep the game sounding right.

2) A world map.

This goes without saying really.  Final Fantasy games haven't had a proper world map since IX and they have been, for the most part, much poorer for it.  Yes, world maps can feel archaic and dated, but there are ways to implement them which aren't so incongruous.  Dragon Quest VIII had a world map that felt like a scaled down level in its own right, with plenty to explore, without being an 'Open World'.  VII could easily go down a similar route.  Any complete removal of VII's map would cause outcry amongst fans and would remove some of the game's sense of glorious freedom after the intense cyberpunk confines of Midgar.

3) But not an Open World.

There are enough Open World games out there these days.  VII really doesn't need to be one of them.

Yes, it's beautiful, Geralt, really it is, but we just don't need it this time.

4) More side quests (but not too many).

The remake has a real opportunity to expand on VIIs world considerably.  We already know more about it thanks to games like Crisis Core and even Advent Children managed to show us some new things in its running time.  It would be great to acknowledge these additions to the world somehow in the remake.  One way to make this work would be to include more side quests.  Meaningful ones, of course, not just fetch quests or 'requisition orders' (the single most annoying feature in the most recent Dragon Age: Inquisition), but little stories encapsulated in gameplay.  They would also be great opportunities to expand our understanding of the main characters and even open up some real surprises (see point 7).  Just don't give us too many.  I don't want another game turning into a gigantic to-do list.

5) Mini-games.

The original had them and we want them back, but perhaps they could be a little more polished this time?  Just not if its at the expense of the rest of the game.

Imagine Mog's House in HD!  Actually, maybe don't...

6) Materia.

There has been a fair amount of talk about the remake having new elements and modernised gameplay and this is all to be expected, but there's one thing in VII's battle system that I really hope they don't remove or tweak too much: the materia system.  It was just such a neat way of managing spells and abilities, providing lots of options, but also had reasonable limitations which lessened over time.  It was also a lot simpler to navigate and manage than most of today's complex roleplaying game skill and equipment systems and, honestly, there's really nothing wrong with simplicity, especially when it is the veneer covering genuine depth.  The materia system had both in spades.

7) Surprises.

My favourite remakes of the last two decades were Resident Evil (2002), on the Gamecube (and recently remastered for current-gen consoles) and Tomb Raider: Anniversary (2007), which, as I mentioned before, I'm replaying at the moment.  These are both remakes of games from 1996, only a year before Final Fantasy VII came onto the scene, and they are also both seminal entries in some of my favourite game franchises, but there is one other thing I hope they'll have in common with the FFVII remake.

It's not what you're expecting... unless you didn't play the original...

One feature which stands out in both of these games is their use of returning player expectations and their tendency to subvert them.  Take Resident Evil for example.  It frequently sets up a scenario identical to one in the original game and at just the moment when a jump scare might be anticipated - or known to be a red herring - the game will flip it around and scare the hell out of you in so doing.  Tomb Raider: Anniversary does something similar, making its puzzles and environments more challenging by showing a similar set up to the one we experienced in '96 and then doing something completely different with it.  VII needs something similar to happen to it to keep it fresh.  You can add all the new gameplay and graphics enhancements you like, but if it doesn't walk the fine line between faithful recreation and subversive reflection, then it's just not worth doing.

And that's it really.  I'm sure I'll come up with a million others in the (most likely many) years before this game is released, but I'm not going to demand that they keep it the same as it was eighteen years ago, nor am I going to complain that they've ruined my favourite game if the remake doesn't live up to my hopes and dreams.  The truth is that, despite our clamour for a remake, Final Fantasy VII is as playable today as it was when I first got my hands on it and it really isn't going anywhere any time soon.

I might go play some now, in fact...

Scotland: Success, Sorrow and the Sin that Separates.

So, Scotland has decided.

My fears were unwarranted and the majority chose to vote No and the United Kingdom I call my home will continue to be united, for a while longer at least.  The sense of relief this gave me on Friday morning was greater than I had anticipated, feeling remarkably like a weight lifted from around my shoulders (I guess that's a cliché for a reason) and then leaving me with the overwhelming sense of exhaustion one usually gets after long periods of anxiety.

Consequently, work on Friday was slow, but it lacked the horrible sense of tension which had accompanied the weeks beforehand and so, despite being tired, I was happy.

Then I began to read the statuses and comments from friends on Facebook who had voted the other way (if you're reading this, then you'll most likely know who you are) and my mood changed,  I did not feel guilty - I genuinely believe I voted the right way and do not wish to change my mind at all - but I did feel sad.

It is genuine sorrow I feel for all those who I know and respect and, indeed, care for a great deal, who chose the opposite outcome from myself and were horribly disappointed.  Even though that outcome would have been a nightmare for me, and one which would have left me deeply upset, I cannot respond to their emotional turmoil with smug happiness.  I feel their pain even though it is for the loss of a dream I did not want to see come into reality.  I feel their pain even though, in one tiny part, I helped bring it about.  This is, in short, a bit of a mess.

And it has always been so, although especially in the last few months, weeks and days of the referendum campaign.  Scotland was (and is), for all its pride in its new found democratic engagement, a deeply divided country.  I felt this personally as I saw the very same Yes votes as in the paragraph above declaring their feelings about the hoped-for independence and found myself beginning to brim with suspicion, mistrust, dislike, even... even hatred.

I am not proud of this, of course, and nor did I act upon any of these upwellings of negative emotion, but neither can I deny that they existed, nor that they might reappear if similar circumstances were to arise once more.

I can even rationalise it quite a bit.  Amidst the pre-referendum tension, Yes votes were looking forward,  hopeful and optimistic and often vehemently passionate, towards a future for Scotland I did not feel I could have any part in, one which would, essentially, be expelling me from the country.  And, even though that would be the result of my decision, not theirs, and even though that was not what they were actually voting for (and nor should it have been), that automatically made them a kind of enemy.  When people you know and love, or even strangers on the streets or in the comments threads become the enemy for no other reason than that they have a yes badge on their lapel or in their profile picture, you know something deeply troubling is occurring

And of course I had to keep reminding myself that they were not the enemy, that they were just choosing the path they genuinely believed was right for themselves and their families, or Scotland, or both.  They were given the same choice as I had been, and given the same information and the only difference was that they interpreted it all a different way and if we're all honest none of us knew for certain which interpretation was truly correct.  We just had to make the best of it.

And crucially, to put a theological spin on all this (which is where I'm heading anyway, in case you were in any doubt) neither vote was a sin to cast, at least not that I can see.  For those unfamiliar with the concept of sin, it is primarily defined as that which we do against God, our creator and the one who knows us best.  Sin is a broken relationship, a rebellion and it usually has consequences for our own health and spiritual well-being, or that of those around us.

Neither Yes, nor No was a vote which said something about your relationship to God, to bring shame upon His name, or renounce Him in any way.  Equally, neither Yes, nor No was designed to wilfully hurt another human being.  Though I have read arguments to the contrary, I do not believe that a vote for Yes was driven by rebellion or hatred of the English, neither was a vote for No driven by selfishness and greed.  I am sure that God is equally capable of using an independent Scotland for His glory as He is able to do so with the current United Kingdom.  I do not know what His design in all this was, but since it was not made clear in anyway, we could not be wilfully going against it by voting either way.

So if voting Yes (or No) was not actually sinful, how can anyone justify the automatic enmity which holding the opposing view produced in myself and so very many others on either side of the divide?  We can't, even though we may have felt genuinely under threat from the alternative viewpoint.  That means that the enmity itself was the sin, but there's more to it than that, for we might ask how we could avoid sinning in this way in a world where people inevitably want different and opposing things without any of those things being sinful in themselves.  It just seems terribly unfair.

And of course it is.  That's because the sin is not just within ourselves, responding negatively to those we see as different, but in the world as a whole - the sum of all the sinful desires and temptations we all experience in our lives.  It is sin in the world that creates the situations were we can want different things for the right reasons and put ourselves on opposite sides of the battle in doing so.  It is sin which creates the thousands of differing beliefs we all hold to dearly, whether globally, or even within one religion or school of thought.  It is sin which results in the greed and mismanagement of resources which force people to squabble over food, or oil or land.  It is, of course, sin which creates democratic governments which do not function as advertised and cause inequality, deep divisions of political conscience and the desire to split.

What I am saying, then, is that it is sin which brought about this referendum.  I do not, of course mean that the SNP were sinful in their desire to ensure the referendum took place, or that the desire within so many Scots for independence itself is sinful.  No.  I mean that it is sin which has brought us to this point, which has so tainted the history of the nations of the United Kingdom, so corrupted those who govern it and so embittered the hearts of many on all sides of the debate over the centuries that the referendum and the division it brought into sharp relief was completely inevitable.

For, of course, in a perfect world we wouldn't need national boundaries and separate governments to protect our identities and desires.  In a perfect world the very thought of cutting ourselves off from each other in such a way would seem ludicrous.  In a perfect world our diversity and differences would be so celebrated, so marvelled at, that we would never think it a cause for isolation, separation or relocation.  In a perfect world there would be no need for ideas like nationalism or unionism, because they would be one and the same thing.

That is why I'm sad even though I got what I wanted.  I'm sad that it had to come to this, that my friends should be upset by my happy turn of events.

But I am also joyful, because, whilst the world isn't perfect, I already have my true nationality, my true citizenship, in a place which is, and so do many of those friends.  Whilst we might disagree on many things, including the details of our faith from time to time, we are united by the one who took sin upon Himself to save us from it and who will, one day, sweep all nations and their pretensions to glory out of the way, to make way for a true kingdom - not of some kind of ethnic purity, as some would see it, nor a dull place where everyone is the same and isn't allowed to think for themselves, but where the diversity that the King Himself created can be celebrated and enjoyed and can complement and balance and just work, in the way the world today never could, no matter how idealistic we might be in changing it, or how well-intentioned our efforts to prevent change.

So, I thank God that He has the solution to sin and sorrow and pray that he will comfort you and transform you in yours and that one day we might meet up as citizens of the Kingdom of Heaven and never be divided by our differences again.

A Fair Hearing

It is late at night on the eve of the Scottish Independence Referendum, an event which is easily the most historic (if one can use that phrase before it has even happened) of which I have ever been a part.  The hour is late and, after days of doing little but liking articles and comments and, on one occasion only, actually sharing one, I find that I do want to have my say.  Everyone else is having theirs and that's what the internet age is all about, right?  Getting to give our points of view, regardless of whether or not it makes any sense or anyone is actually listening?

Yes, I'm aware I'm lampooning this even as I write - I get the irony, but I'm doing this because the desire to be heard is a strong one and it's one of many which has fired up this referendum in the first place.

I don't want to write a series of arguments or clever points to get you to swing around to my point of view, however.  I'm sure you've already made up your mind, or, if you haven't this late in the game, then you're probably not going to be swayed at the last minute by meagre ramblings.

I'm also not here to congratulate everyone on their political engagement, to point out all the wonderful things the referendum debate has brought into the public consciousness, to pat everyone on the back in advance of the final whistle and remind us all to be sportsmanlike in victory, or defeat.

I'm not condemning either of those actions, either.  We all have a right to speak up about the things we believe in and are passionate about and there is much truth to the positive, 'we're all friends here, right?' posts as well.

No.

All I want to do is express myself and, primarily, I mean how I feel.

Lent: One Month Later

Yesterday marked exactly one month since Easter, Resurrection Sunday and the end of my (mostly) fictionless Lent, so I thought it would be a good time to look back and, very briefly, review how it went and what has become of me since. Unfortunately yesterday was also rather busy, so, beautiful symmetry ruined, I shall update you today, instead.

Firstly, how do I think Lent went? During the experience I was pretty up and down about it, riding the highs and lows of successes and failures, expectations exceeded and disappointments encountered. One month on, however, I can view the whole thing as something meaningful, directional and for which I am hugely thankful to God for leading me into. Combined with the Aberdeen Passion, recent job explorations and church activities, it really feels like the sometimes glacial work of being transformed by the renewing of my mind was given a serious turbo charge!

That flipside of that comes in the answer to the next question: how do I feel what I learned and experienced during Lent has carried through into my post-Lenten life? The answer here is more ambiguous, at least partly because I'm still living it, but also because the successes and failures continue. I had intended to keep listening to sermons a few times a week, for example and managed it for the first week or so, but then the lure of new episodes of Fringe has dulled my enthusiasm.

I have managed to keep to my morning prayer and bible study time, however, and that has helped to stabilise me through the flat times, the depressing times and the moments of anxiety after the Passion. (There's actually a whole missing blog post about that, but I think I have been wise to leave it in my drafts).

I have also been examining the things I really love to do and tried to do them more, to God's glory, I hope. I've got back into song writing and singing more, and have posted a couple of songs on my new soundcloud account. I have also vowed to do more writing that is not merely Shadow, including updating this blog and finishing Murkland (although please bear in mind I last committed to finish it on New Year's Day, 2013.,,)

In the midst of all this in keeping my eyes and ears open for the opportunities God gives to use my talents and skills for Him and hope to find a more fulfilling path in life than where I've been up until now - careerwise, at least.

So, watch this space, I guess?

Truth and Fiction (A Short Story)

Somewhere in my designs for this blog, I had intended that, as well as sharing my thoughts on many topics, and using it as a hub for my web fiction serials, I was going to post shorter, independent pieces of fiction here.  Over the past few days I have been looking through my 'portfolio' and reminding myself of various things I have been working on, on and off, and other pieces which I completed long enough ago to have forgotten all about them.  The following is one such piece, written four or five years ago, which I thought I might try to follow with others about the same characters in the same alternate history, but sadly never did.  It has, as its central theme, much of the ideas I had been posting about during Lent, so now I post it here for your enjoyment.

Truth and Fiction

            “The typing goes well, then?” the Duc de Yorque enquired as he entered the study to see his nephew surrounded by papers and spent ink ribbons.  There was barely even any space left on the floor and just a few inches of a fine rug depicting the   Pharos of Alejandria remained visible.

            “Better than it has for a while,” replied the long-haired young gentleman who sat in the midst of all the chaos, stopping his furious typing only momentarily to spin around and glance fleetingly at the monocled old man in the doorway, “I think I have finally found a way past my block!  At last I know how Henrietta’s lover escaped from the Indies so that he could see her again.”

            “These are your strange ‘West Indies’, governed by an alternate Angleterre in charge of her own empire, somewhat like that of the Spanish, yes?”

            “I call it the British Empire, as these Isles are unified in that world.”

            The Duc stepped forward, leaning over his nephew’s shoulder to wonder at his prose.  “You really have such a fine imagination, Michel.  How do you think of such things?”

            “I just imagine how things might have been had everything turned out differently, for instance if the Moors had succeed in invading Spain, rather than the other way around, or if the Saxon purges had never occurred.”

            “But to think of such things – you are a visionary!”

            The younger man blushed and returned to his typing, the click of keys resounding around the small study with almost musical rhythm.  The Duc smiled and turned back towards the hall.  As he was halfway through the door he turned again and said, almost whimsically, “You know, you should read some of it tonight after dinner.  I’m sure young Mlle. de Londres would find it most charming.”  He smiled mischievously as he closed the door and left Michel blushing for entirely different reasons than before.

            The dining room was glittering with crystal and candlelight as the guests took their seats, still in the midst of their quiet conversations from the hall.  The Duc sat at the head of the table and gazed at each of his guests in turn.  His expression was caught somewhere between kindness and pride.  Everyone was turned out in their finest dress and represented some of the most respected people in Norman society and all returned his looks appreciatively.  All, that is, except the guest of honour, the widowed Comtess de Londres, who matched his gaze with imperious distaste, although the Duc himself did not seem to notice.

            To either side of the Comtess sat her children, the young Comte, a military Magician freshly returned on leave from the siege of Stirling, and Mlle. Marie, who was literally dazzling in a white gown with a net of diamonds in her hair.  Michel, seated to her right, could barely even glance at her without looking like a once-blind man who has seen the sun for the first time.

            He remained silent whilst the others continued their small talk, watching as the servants scurried in carrying trays of aperitifs.  They would lay each plate before the guests with a stealthy grace, careful to be functional, not visible.

            “So, Phillipe,” the Duc began after everyone had finished talking and taken their first few mouthfuls, “please, tell us about the war in Scotia.”

            The Comte’s obvious pride made him seem to grow taller and more impressive in an instant, as if by the very Magic that had made him the Army’s most talked about hero.  His handsome features held a confidence verging on arrogance, but were soft enough to remain charming and his wide grin was considered to be quite disarming, or so Michel had heard.

            “It is the most brutal war we have fought in a long time.  The Scots have certainly learned a thing or two since the last time and, whilst we have advanced much farther north on this occasion, the casualties so far have been horrific.”

            “Is it true they are using Druids to supply Stirling?” asked Mlle. de la Ville de Roi sur l’Hul, an influential young heiress.

            “It would seem so,” the Comte replied.  “We believe they have been Magically transporting goods from the port of Glasgow which we’ve been unable to blockade due to Irish intervention.”

            “Is there no counter Magic you can use?” asked the Duc.

            “Oh we’ve tried all sorts, but whilst I am undoubtedly stronger than any one of them, there is, sadly, a great deal more of them than there are of me.”

            The Duc nodded sympathetically and then turned to Michel, “And what of the Scots in your Fiction, Michel?  Do they have Druids still, fighting for this great ‘British Empire’ of yours?”

            Nervously the young writer raised his head and glanced around at the other guests before clearing his throat.  “No, Uncle, there is no Magic in this world I have created.”

            “No Magic?” scoffed the Comte, “but how could a world like that even exist?”

            “I believe that God requires no such powers to create.”

            “But is it not blasphemy to credit yourself with the same powers of creation?” asked Mlle. de Londres.

            Michel felt his heart leap into his throat as she addressed him.  Wary that she had posed the question a little spicily, he replied, “For me it is just imagination, whereas God creates ultimate reality, there is no comparison!”  Mlle. de Londres gaze was one of mild interest now, though it still made Michel sweat, “But even so I have often asked myself the same question.  In the end, I can only conclude that imagination is a gift He has given me and must be treated with due respect.”

            The Comte laughed, “But what use has God for such nonsense?  God favours the strong, men of action like the Duc and I.”

            “Oh my time in the war with Spain was a trifle, Phillipe, do not speak of it.”

            “Nevertheless you fought for Greater Normandie, surely you would agree that that holds more value than words on a page, mere whimsy?”

            “Well I have not read this latest story, but I have always found Michel’s imagination to be most enchanting.  It warms the heart and inspires the mind, makes the blood pump with excitement!  Is there not value in that?”

            “It is nothing to actual experience, dear Duc!  What point to such insight on events which have not occurred in reality?  Were such stories Historical, then there might be found some purely academic merit, but…” the Comte trailed off, shaking his head and barely restraining his amusement.

            “Well,” said the Duc, recovering, “I have asked Michel to read some of it after dinner, so we shall see then what entertainment can be had.”

            “Oh, I am not sure any of it is ready for public reading,” Michel responded hastily, “I would prefer to leave it for another occasion.”

            The Duc looked at him sadly, but the Comte was smirking slightly and Michel knew that he could never have read it before such a man.  Almost immediately the Comtess, who had remained silently disapproving throughout all of the previous topic, took control of the conversation and began to speak at length of the dreadful time she had spent a month ago in the Alps of the Confederatio Helvetica.  Michel tried to look appropriately shocked for a time, but soon returned to watching the other guests.  It was then that he saw how Mlle. de Londres was gazing at him.  She seemed disappointed.

            After a long dinner, dominated by the tales of the Comtess and her son, they all retired to the salon where the men were each served a glass of Cognac and the women received wine.  Michel lingered in the corner of the room as Mlle. de Londres sat down at the Pianoforte and began to play after a little prompting from her mother.  Her fingers moved deftly across the keys; faster than Michel - who was not at all musically talented, but who’s skill with keys of a different sort was well known - could follow.  The pieces she played at first were complicated and, if the expressions visible were any guide, unfamiliar to the majority of guests.  Michel certainly didn’t know any of them, but there was a beauty and a wonder to them not found in music of a less complex kind and he found himself lost in them quite easily.

            After a few such pieces her mother approached, leaned over her shoulder and suggested, a little forcibly, “Why don’t you play something we can all sing along to?”

            Mlle. de Londres smiled politely and nodded before playing the opening bars of Le Bon, Vieux Duc de Yorque, which had everyone laughing and singing in seconds, however she no longer seemed to radiate her love for the instrument and Michel found that more saddening than cheery.

            More songs were sung and alcohol began to flow freely into glasses and then out again.  As the young pianist tired others took over and the guests began to disperse between rooms as the doors were opened out onto the garden and the light of the moon mingled with that raining down from the chandelier in the hall.  Michel drifted from one room to the next, catching snippets of conversations and gleaning just enough information each time to know he wouldn’t want to join in.

            The Comte de Londres was standing in the midst of a small crowd of admirers, both gentlemen and young ladies, who were all staring at him with a kind of worshipful awe as he continued telling his stories from the front.

            “And so it was literally raining frogs across the battlefield!  All the officers were most disturbed by it.  The slimy beasts just got absolutely everywhere and played havoc with our ammunition and supplies,” he was explaining during one of Michel’s brief passes.

            “What did you do in response?” asked an eager-looking young man, who Michel believed might have been the son of the Duc de Chêtre.

            “The only thing I could think of,” replied de Londres in practised style, “I sent them a plague of flies and the frogs followed.  We must have wasted a weeks worth of rations.  I think, if we had sustained the spell another day we’d have had them, but as soon as it broke they sent for more rations from Glasgow.”

            Michel abandoned the group as a wave of sighs rippled across it, making for the main hall instead.  He entered as he always did, gazing up at the grand chandelier, so he was quite surprised, when he lowered his head, to find Mlle. de Londres standing in the moonlight of the open doorway, staring at him.  He blushed slightly as their eyes met, then, feeling a pull more strong than he could have described in his fiction, began to drift over towards her.

            They stood together in awkward silence for a few seconds and then both spoke at once.

            “Michel, I be-”

            “Your playing was-”

            There was another moment of awkwardness and then Michel bowed and the mademoiselle nodded graciously before continuing.

            “You are Michel, the Duc’s nephew, no?”

            “The very same, my lady.”

            “And you write fantasies?”

            “It is just hobby really,” he replied, his gazed shifting between hers and his feet.

            “Oh, but you spoke about it with such passion this evening.  I was quite stirred by your defence of the art.  Do you really believe that the Kingdom can be furthered through such things?”

            “Well I am not sure that any of my works do it justice, but I do believe that there can be truth in all art, even that which does not appear at first to imitate reality.”

            “And how do you account for such a theory?”

            “I believe two things: that the imagination can be a rich source of symbolism and allegory and that God Himself endorses the clever use of such devices.  Perhaps the spirit even guides their invention?”

            “And what is the evidence for this latter claim?”

            “Well the Word itself is filled with such writing.  Not all that is written in its pages may have happened as it is written, but all is certainly true.”

            Mlle. de Londres smiled at this.  “You have thought about this a lot, haven’t you?”

            “I may not often stand up to the likes of you brother, my lady-”

“Please, call me Marie.”

“Marie…” he savoured the sound, “but I must still defend myself from their ideas.”

“I wish I could do the same.  My family disapproves of a young lady such as myself taking music as seriously as I do.”

“Those pieces you played tonight – I have never heard their like before. Who composed them?”

“I did.”

“But… that is incredible!  They were beautiful and so complicated.  I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

“Thank you, but Maman detests them and Phillipe is ashamed of me, I think.”

            “He should be proud that his family is so talented.”

            “You heard him at dinner. He treats all art the same!  ‘It is pure frivolity, sister.  If you must play, at least make it something appropriate to your station.’”

            Michel couldn’t help but laugh at the accuracy of the impersonation.

            “But your music speaks of things that his magic could never reach, places a soldier could never tread.”

            It was, at last, Marie’s turn to blush.

            “You know, I think I would like a walk in the gardens, would you care to join me, Michel?”

He smiled and nodded, gesturing for her to step ahead.

“And afterwards I think I might like to hear some of that story of yours.”

After the Passion (A Psalm)

The last few days have been very tough, for all the reasons listed in my previous blog and more.  I have felt cold and empty when I should have felt joy, and lonely, even when there have been many people around me (and people who love me very much right beside me).

Last night, in the midst of all this I felt the desire to write a Psalm.  I have never tried before, nor have I really wanted to, but I started it right then and worked on it again this morning.  It is probably still a work in progress, but I wanted to share it, for, in writing when feeling low and in focussing on God as I did so - in crying out to Him and praising Him - I find my heart very much lightened.  I hope it might be a blessing to others also.

One final thing.  Psalms have a tendency to be melodramatic and, it has to be said, so do I.  That tendency has got a lot worse this week - leaving me feeling guilty every time I express myself - but here, in the context of a Psalm, it seems only a magnification, not a distortion.  I hope you read it as such.

Why so disquiet within me, oh my soul?

My enemies outnumber my friends.
They are locusts stripping my fields,
They are an army of ghosts sent to haunt me.
Their helmets shine like gold,
Their raiment like the sun at noon,
But they hide faces pocked with decay,
Their flesh is the flesh of the grave:
To rally to their call is to die.

Why have you let them come to me, oh Lord?
Why, when victory seemed so close at hand,
When I basked in the glow of your triumph,
Was it snatched away, so cruelly?

For I have seen your Holy city, Lord,
I have tasted the wine of Zion,

And drank with the family you had given me.

The air was cool and sweet,
Like honey on my lips,
Like nectar on the tongue.
Your people welcomed me
With olive branches and laurels,
With fruit and fragrant wine.
We sang and danced and rejoiced together.
My cup was overflowing with joy.

But it did not last, Lord.
Like a dream, it vanished in the morning,
Like a fox it ran with the dawn
And I was left alone.

Alone, I face this army in the desert.

Was it merely a mirage?
Did my mind deceive me?
Or are these ghosts the deception,
Sent to waylay me on my pilgrimage?

For I am not alone.

Why so disquiet within me, oh my soul,
When the one who holds the banquet
Walks beside me?

The Lord will be my shield.
He will be my armour and my sword.
His word will be the light to guide me,
The path which I must follow.

We march for home,
For the city on the hill,
Where the banquet yet awaits
And the doors are thrown wide
For the return of her Princes.

I will sing to the Lord,
And put aside the vanity that haunts me.
For the triumph was yours, oh my God,
The tears,
The sweat,
The blood,
But I rejoiced in the gift
And not in the giver.

[Selah]

It was not a dream,
For I have not yet awoken.
The city was not a mirage,
For the desert is the lie.

You have prepared a place for me,
Oh Lord, my God,
And though phantoms assail me,
Though I am faithless and weak,
You will not give it to another.

Why so disquiet within me, oh my soul?
For the Lord is my rock and my salvation
And I will sing,
Though worlds collapse around me
And tears wear gullies in my cheeks.

I will sing.

Resurrection Day!

This is, hopefully, just going to be a short post.  I have post-Easter lunch dishes to do and should really get some proper rest and a cup of tea before long as well.  I am, however, emotional, a little overwrought and just kind of desperate to keep connecting to something that has passed and so I can't be held fully responsible for the length this post reaches...

Easter has come and that means Lent is over.  I can return to Fiction.  I no longer have to deny myself the way I have for the last month and a bit.  This is fantastic news in many ways, and yet, apart from reading a chapter of a story a friend is writing (and cruelly posted just after I had started my Lent - kidding!) I haven't really availed myself of the opportunity.  I doubt this has anything to do with piety.  It's mostly because the day has been busy enough with things of its own, and it's also because I'm in a really weird place emotionally

I'll tell you the story.

So, a little over six months ago I committed to joining the Aberdeen Passion 2014.  I've mentioned this before.  In that six month period, as well as having ups and downs in 'the real world' with the arrival of a beautiful baby girl, the departure of a much loved cat, and a fair degree of uncertainty over what I should be doing with my life, I bonded with my fellow cast-members (some again, some for the first time), grew into a part I wasn't, in many ways suited for, and fell in love, once again, with acting out the events of that first Holy week.

And then came Lent.  I started this blog and set aside something that meant a lot to me in order to take up things I knew needed to mean more.  I learned a lot, I changed a little and all the while there was this new family who were (some of them at least) following that journey alongside me.  They weren't the only ones, nor were they the most important family in my life by any means - but they were welcoming and accepting in a way those you weren't actually raised by, or with (or married to) rarely are and I saw them more and more often as the weeks went by.

And then there was last week.  A sudden, final, furious burst of activity to get the Passion play finessed and ready for the stage: the final rehearsal in our old rehearsal space on Palm Sunday, the technical rehearsal in the venue on Thursday night, the full dress rehearsal on Friday afternoon and then, one after the other, with only one night's sleep in the middle, the three performances.  What a ride!  What a rush!  What an incredible experience to share with these wonderful people I had come to love - without even really knowing many of them.  And it was all to the glory of God... and yeah, we had a bit of the glory too.  How could we not with people telling us after each performance how great they thought the whole thing was, how moved they were, how one actress had set them off crying, how another actor had really made them think about that character in a new way.  It was a profoundly intense... and in a sense, profoundly intimate experience to share.

And then it was all over.

It had to end, of course.  Today's Easter Sunday and we wouldn't want to perform it again on such an important day.  We have our own families to spend time with and share the joy of Jesus' resurrection all over again.  And we carry on in the blessed afterglow of all that we've experienced too - such an amazing high, such wonderful new insights into God's love for us, such potential in the friendships we have made!

But there's a hole there now.  For a while life was sparkling and strange and just so unbelievably fresh, that to return to life afterwards, especially knowing that work - that world of dreary normality, where I don't really even know who I am any more - is just around the corner.

I've had my ups and downs all day: celebrating Easter, and yet mourning the Aberdeen Passion - because that's what this is... it's grief.  Grief at the loss of a one-off experience.  Grief at the separation of relationships.  Grief at the ending of a dream.

But this isn't the end.  If there's one thing I've been reminded of time and time again this weekend it is that that Easter Sunday nearly two thousand years ago was not the end!  It wasn't the end then and just because we've finished one way of telling about it, it's not the end now.  The same saviour we crucified on stage, the one our characters hugged with joy at the end - He was actually present with us the whole time we were performing.  We could tell.  We could feel Him strengthening us.  We were encouraged by Him when things got difficult.  It was He who brought us all together and it is in His nail-scarred hands that all those relationships and experiences rest.

This isn't just the day when we celebrate Jesus' resurrection.  This is our resurrection day too.  If we believe in Him then we died with Him and were raised with Him.  My life is constantly being renewed in Jesus Christ!

So, I may be struggling a bit just now, but I know that my life was not that one play, and nor was my experience of its glorious subject, my Lord and saviour, Jesus Christ, the man who was God, who bore the sins of the world, who is the one and only way to the Father and the gateway to eternal life - He is with me now and He knows the plans he has for me, for all of us.  I can't wait to see where He takes me next.

God bless you all and may you all have a Happy Easter!

Passion

We're into the final week of Lent.

It's hard to believe that Easter is so nearly upon us.  I think of what it felt like to begin this journey and I wonder if I'm the same now as when I began, or if there has been some transformation, however small - an evidence for the Spirit.  I incline towards the maudlin, the pensive, the contemplative.  Easter can do that, but I go through these cycles, these whirlpools of excitement and disappointment, of hope and despair, of intent and disavowal.  I get lost, sometimes, in the maze of my own complex, as if it were something real, a place of some significance, not merely a matter of perspective.

There'll be time to examine what I have, or haven't learned from this journey.  There'll be time to look deep at what I am left carrying on the other side of Easter - something precious, something worn but functional, or a piece of burnt-out wreckage.  There'll be time for the big debrief, but I gave you this little piece of my often messed-up mind just now because it sets the scene for what I'm about to talk about, which is, as John Cleese once said, 'something completely different'.  Or...?

One thing I have mentioned Ad Infinitum on Facebook, but have breathed (typed) not a word of on this blog so far, is that at 7.30pm on Good Friday, I'll be joining a crowd of other Christians (and some Non-Christians) on stage at the Aberdeen Exhibition and Conference Centre for the second Aberdeen Passion: One Hope.

This is a big deal in itself, but bigger still for me, I will have the wonderful privilege and the grave responsibility of playing Peter.  This is the biggest role I have ever played on stage.

To put this in perspective, here is a potted history of my life in theatre:

When I was five I joined my first Christmas play - the Magic Garden - in the role of.... one of the trees.  I had no lines.

My second Christmas performance was to be as a reindeer, one of the ones at the back.  Again, no lines.

A later play gave me the opportunity to play Joseph - the Holy Grail of schoolboy nativity roles.  I ended up a choral shepherd in this musical version, however, on account of the fact that I couldn't actually sing high enough for the role...

In my penultimate year in Primary School, I got to play the father of St. Patrick in a mimed play about the Saint.  I mimed a version of St. Patrick's Breastplate, then was chased around the stage for a minute before being stabbed to death and not involved in the rest of the performance.

Apart from these primary school performances (I was also an advisor to Aethelred the Unready in a P7 play, which, despite being the biggest role I'd had up to that point, I can barely remember) my acting career has consisted mainly of Scripture Union Holiday Club dramas, playing singing caretakers, mad Italian chefs and slimy alien villains.

I was in the last Aberdeen Passion, One Life Given back in 2012, but even then I was a two-line Pharisee abs a one-line Angel. That experience was part of what drew me back to the Passion, but nothing I've done before has really prepared me for this. I'll come back to that - in fact there's a lot I want to say about the experience and it might not all add up to one neat, coherent narrative, I'm afraid, so I'm just going to ask you to bear with me and take what you can from my musings.

Firstly playing this role has made me look at Peter in a way I never have before. To me Peter has always been the bold, reckless caricature he is often portrayed as. A man of great faith and little time for thinking things through before hand. I say caricature, but that's not too deny that he had those traits. They are clearly to be seen in the texts of the gospels, after all. But, even so, actually playing the man on stage has forced me to look for more depth than I have usually been presented with in my previous encounters with his story.

Some of this had to do with my own weaknesses as an actor. I am not a bold person. I am not especially reckless. My faith has always been weak and, whilst the essence of acting is appearing that which you are not, I find it hard to portray a man who was, in many ways, my opposite. So I had to find some part of Peter I could identify with, a fragment of my own personality within him: the seed from which my portrayal of him could sprout. I think I found it quite early on in rehearsals.

Asked to talk a bit about our characters, I found myself latching on to the fact that Peter is, in fact, a man of some not inconsiderable contradictions. He walked on water with Jesus, was the first to recognise him as the Messiah (by the Spirit), proclaimed loudly how he would die for him; yet Peter was also the one whose faith failed him on the lake, so that he began to sink, who constantly told Jesus that the things the Son of Man predicted about his death and resurrection were 'not so' and who denied even knowing him three times to save his own skin.

The word 'passion' originally meant only 'the suffering of Christ on the cross', so it is right and proper that we use it in reference to the Easter story, but led me flip that about a bit just now by using it in its modern sense to describe the contradiction of Peter: Peter's passion for Jesus was matched only by his inability to follow through.

Taking a moment to look at that in my own life, I have often struggled with the idea of being a 'passionate' Christian, indeed, I have struggled with the concept of passion in many areas of my life.  For one who so easily gets lost in his own internal, emotional landscape, I can often seem cold and whilst I do get fired up about things, they are usually the things that don't really matter, as if it is easier to commit oneself to the frivolous than to the deeper things of life.  I have prayed for passion in my life almost as much as I have prayed for faith, and it is still something I am not always comfortable with.  One friend once told me that I was the British person she knew, and perhaps this was part of what she was alluding to?

Passion was clearly not a problem for Peter, however.  From his fervent attempts to please Jesus to his vehement denial, Peter was a man for whom strong emotion was no stranger, but how to balance these polar opposite moments in his life?  Having looked to see a way in which I could play him, with my more reserved demeanour and shyness, it seemed to me that he was actually a man riddled with insecurity.  What follows is my interpretation.  It may not be correct, but I think it is still illuminating for our own lives as Christians.

Peter is taken from a humble life as a Galilean fisherman to become one of the principle players in the most important event of human history, and, somewhere along the journey, the impact of that must have hit him.  He did, after all, get given the revelation that Jesus was the Messiah, so he was in no doubt that he had entered an exalted circle.  His only reason for being there?  Why, that would be Jesus himself.  Jesus was Peter's passport to lead him out of obscurity and into history.

So Peter clings to Jesus.

He loves him, yes - that's clear from his actions - but there is also a sense in which his image of Jesus is what is holding him, allowing him to reconcile his new circumstances with his old - his privileged position with the unschooled man he knows himself to be.  Jesus is everything to him, but his idea of who Jesus is is not completely correct and wont be until after the resurrection - in fact he'll still have plenty to learn about who Jesus really is for the rest of his life, just like the rest of us.  Peter is holding onto an idea of the Messiah which does not match up to what Jesus ultimately goes on to do.  It is obvious from his rebukes to Jesus every time the master tells him that he must die.  It's obvious from the way he responds to the appearance of Moses and Elijah during the transfiguration.  Peter has glued his insecure identity to a distorted image.

So, when Jesus is arrested, Peter's world starts to crumble.  This bold, courageous man, is left alone and terrified.  He follows Jesus at a distance, because Jesus - or at least his idea of who Jesus is - is all he has to hold his identity in place, but faced with the very real threat of being implicated with him and suffering severe punishment for being one of his followers, he buckles.  His idea of who he is and who he was cannot cope with the pressure put upon it by circumstances that, as far as he is concerned, make no sense whatsoever.  His vision of reality is falling apart, and, passionately, he denies having any connection to his master, his friend - his idol.

As I said before, I am not bold and courageous in most things and I certainly lack Peter's walk-on-water faith, even at my best.  What I can relate to, however, (and many others would be with me) is insecurity.  I've been over this before - I wrote a whole post on it - but being able to see and understand the problem, and even seeing the solution in the form of God's good grace, does not make it simply vanish.  I am still an inherently insecure person the vast majority of the time, and so I can relate to this in Peter.  I can relate to his uncertainty about who he really is, why he is being used by God the way he is and how he should follow through when things get rough.

So, this is my hook for playing him: Peter the bold who crumbles when his Master is taken from him, because his identity was hanging on who he thought Jesus was, rather than who Jesus was revealing himself to be all the time.  My Peter is somewhat stripped down, thought that's not to say simplified, necessarily, but I've focussed on this aspect of his character over some of the more traditional elements.  There is still some bravado, some rushed, thoughtless action - I can't change the story, even if I wanted to - but my performance hangs on Peter's internal life, the emotional landscape he, perhaps, doesn't really understand, the thoughts he holds onto and those he cannot yet grasp.

I don't know how much of that will show on stage, but I hope it will inform all that does.  In the end it is the best that I can do.  I'm simply not a good enough actor to portray Peter any other way.  I can only do my best with the talents God has given me and hope that, by his Spirit it is enough.  I know, also, that I'm not at the centre of this play.   The Passion is not about Peter, but he is one of our roads in to understanding it and so I take the role very seriously, praying that God will use it to reveal something of Himself to the audience this weekend.

And that brings be to the other thing I want to examine, just very briefly. I mentioned praying for faith, and have pointed out on numerous occasions that I am not bold - I lack confidence in myself and can be very shy.  So why, you might ask, are you acting on stage at all?

It's a very good question.  I was plagued by stage fright when I was younger - I remember once imagining myself having heart attack on stage at a school prize giving event and seeing my (somewhat rotund, and rather posh) headmaster looming over me to say "Get off the stage, George, you're blocking the procedure" - and even this weekend past standing up in front of my church to give an announcement was utterly terrifying, but here's a funny thing.  The last time I was involved in the Aberdeen Passion I was not really nervous at all.  There are still a few more days until the first performance and I do have a very strong sense of just how much bigger my part is this time around than last, but even so I'm still not really nervous.

Some of it is probably just because of how well and often we've rehearsed.  I cannot doubt that I know my lines and what I need to do with them.  Some of it is likely because of the great team of people I have the privilege of working with - the Passion family as we call it, because, in so many ways, that is what we have become and I treasure the time we get to spend together working on these productions.  But, there is more to it - of that I'm sure.

If there is a miracle hidden within my testimony, it is this: God has transformed me from a timid, socially awkward youth into a timid, socially awkward man - who can do whatever He asks of me, even in front of an audience, when He wills it to be so.  Praise the Lord, because without him I'd be hiding in cupboard somewhere right now!

Imagine

Another week, another blog and, once again, I think I find myself with nothing new to say, when a post begins to form in my mind. This time it's on the back of having just finished three books: A Fine-Tuned Universe: The Quest for God in Science and Theology by Alister E. McGrath, A Grief Observed by C. S. Lewis and then back to McGrath with Heresy: A History of Defending the Truth. Three very different books, all of which left me with plenty to think about and which (along with my previous read on meditation) have had me wondering about the role of imagination in the Christian faith. I hope to explore that question a bit later on.

But first: the books! McGrath's Fine-Tuned Universe is a book about looking at Natural Theology (traditionally what we can learn about God from what He has revealed of Himself through nature) in a new way. McGrath calls for an approach where we no longer seek to prove God's existence using Natural Theology, but whereby we recognise the way in which Nature reflects or 'resonates' with a Christian, Trinitarian worldview. We don't look to nature to prove God, whom we believe in through Scripture and personal experience, but we see that Christianity may offer the best explanation for what is observed in Nature. He examines the theological implications of this and then looks at some relatively recent developments in cosmology, physics and evolutionary biology which, he argues, can be seen in this light.

As a whole it is an approach which really appeals to me, indeed, though I might never have verbalised it as such, or been able to explain it very clearly, it is much the way I have always approached nature, but McGrath solidifies it, grounds it in science and uses Augustine's doctrine of creation as a way of suggesting how our growing understanding of the life, the cosmos and the emergent, stratified nature of reality can be reflected theologically.

It is fascinating stuff. I did have a couple of problems with the book, however. The first was that it spey inconclusive. McGrath intended it to be the start (or very nearly the start) of a theological and scientific conversation, so it sort of leaves all its ideas hanging, waiting to see who picks them up. Another issue is that it doesn't have a huge amount of scriptural grounding. This is common in Natural Theology in general and whilst it's clear the 'Trinitarian worldview' McGrath is talking about is scripturally based, he doesn't actually demonstrate this very often. It also results in the single most frustrating aspect of the book, which is his exploration of Augustine's doctrine of creation, which Augustine based, not only on Genesis, but also on a verse in Ecclesiasticus, one of the apocryphal texts not recognised as authoritative by the majority of the (protestant) church. Whilst the Apocrypha is another issue entirely from the one the book was about, McGrath fails to mention this as an issue at all, which seems a little incomplete.

Aside from these (mostly) niggles, however, it is an excellent book and one well worth reading of you have an interest in the places where theology and science meet and wish to expand your imaginative understanding of the Universe. More on that in a bit...

A Grief Observed by C. S. Lewis is a very different kind of book. It is a short diary by the great writer and Christian apologist, written in the days, weeks, months after the death of his wife from cancer. It is astonishingly honest, angry and moving, yet also clear, with a precision of thought and analysis rarely seen in such moments. Through it Lewis appears to understand more about his grief, his humanity, and, above all else, God.  It's a book which, as soon as you start reading it, you realise must be important in some way and, indeed, I would recommend that everyone does.  It is phenomenally well-written, brutally honest and yet so well-thought out by the end.  I don't think I can review it further without repeating myself again.

Heresy: A History of Defending the Truth, is a very different book from A Fine-Tuned Universe and yet McGrath's particular style and some familiar arguments manage to rise to the surface as you read it.  Much like the former book, it feels rather inconclusive, but what you do get is a very good overview of some of the major heresies of the classical 'patristic' era and some sound criticism of a number of theories on how heresy orginates and whether what we know as Christian orthodoxy has any right to be so. In doing so it challenges some traditional Christian views, such as the idea that heresy always originates outside the church, but at the same time post-modern approaches are also shown to be indefensible. Heresy is not a liberating alternative to a repressive orthodoxy, but the spiritual equivalent of an evolutionary dead end in the exploration of the best way to express Christian belief.

One finishes the book with a profound sense that Christian orthodoxy is to be defended (if continually developed), not only because it is the best model of life and faith for the Christian, but because it is also the most intellectually coherent, satisfying and exciting vision of Christianity. McGrath finishes with a call for theologians and practising Christians alike to exercise their intellects and imagination in presenting this truth to the world, which has been led to believe quite the opposite for a number of social, cultural and historical reasons.

McGrath's approach to theology is one of intellectual excitement, rather than spiritual development, but from reading his works (and listening to him) I'm reasonably sure of his saving faith in Jesus Christ. His very academic approach is a function of both his personality (which is similar to my own in at least this respect) and the context within which he works, but his appeal to the Christian imagination at the end is one which I think we all need to engage with, which brings me to the meat of this post...

Imagination.  The one thing all three books above have in common, aside from the fact that I chose to read them (and simply because they were there, on my bookshelf, rather than because of any other particular agenda), is that they each make appeals to the human imagination in the way they look at our Faith and the world around us.  McGrath calls for the use of the Christian imagination in how we look at and respond to the natural world and the sciences which explore it, as well as in how we look at our theological orthodoxy and relate it to the world.  Lewis demonstrates the power the imagination has to deceive us in our understanding of both God and those we love, but equally that it can be transformed by our faith to help us know God and others more clearly.

I have touched on this topic before, of course, in my defence of fiction and it's ability to be used as an explanatory, analogical, allegorical and inspiring tool for exploring the ideas of life and faith, but that's not all the imagination is used for and so this is a look at the Christian imagination as whole and why we should spend more time developing it within our fellowships.

Imagination is frowned upon by a number of Christians and this is seen to be something mirrored outside of the Church as well.  Imagination is something children have, an element of play.  It is not something which a mature adult should spend much time worrying about.  I commented on this attitude before, citing C. S. Lewis' response to such thinking.  This time I shall quote him more fully:

Critics who treat 'adult' as a term of approval, instead of as a merely descriptive term, cannot be adult themselves. To be concerned about being grown up, to admire the grown up because it is grown up, to blush at the suspicion of being childish; these things are the marks of childhood and adolescence. And in childhood and adolescence they are, in moderation, healthy symptoms. Young things ought to want to grow. But to carry on into middle life or even into early manhood this concern about being adult is a mark of really arrested development. When I was ten, I read fairy tales in secret and would have been ashamed if I had been found doing so. Now that I am fifty I read them openly. When I became a man I put away childish things, including the fear of childishness and the desire to be very grown up.

But as I said, there is more the the human imagination that its power to create and be absorbed in complete fictions.  The imagination is also a very necessary part of our rationality.  We do not simply use our imaginations to think of things that are not, we also need to use it to explore ideas that are, but which we cannot perceive with our usual range of physical senses.  The best example of this can be seen in the modern sciences, which are often exploring elements of the natural world which can be observed and recorded using various pieces of technology - things which most assuredly do exist - and yet things which the human eye cannot see, the ear cannot hear, the fingers cannot touch and manipulate, and so on.  Scientists, however some might baulk at such a suggestion (though I'm sure most would not) must use their imaginations if they are to understand such phenomena better, determining how they work and how they relate to other such phenomena.

Equally, Philosophy and Theology have engaged with the human imagination for thousands of years, exploring concepts which are real, but not tangible, which can be conceived of, but not seen.  The idea that the imagination is a fanciful, even shameful thing, seems to be a more recent one, tied together with the increase in fantasy fiction since the nineteenth century and, before that, to the puritan reaction against fiction full stop.

So what does it mean for Christians to use their imaginations?  I cannot claim to have a comprehensive doctrine to hand, nor can I cite much in the way of Scripture to help develop one.  All I can say is that Christians need to use their imaginations to see the connections between what they believe and the reality they see, as well as to expand those notions to see how they relate to what others believe and how best to share that testimony with them.  This can, of course, involve our creative gifts, given to us by God to exercise for his glory, but it can just as easily be used in how we explain our faith at a purely theological, spiritual or experiential level.

Romans 12 verse 2 says this:

Do not conform to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind.  Then you will be able to test and approve what God's will his - his good, perfect and pleasing will.

Paul is talking about a spiritual transformation which enables us to see the world in a profoundly Christian way, but just because it is a spiritual process does not mean it does not have physical applications. Seeing the world itself is one such application, how we think about the world and how we process our understanding of it are similarly physio-chemical processes in the brain.  The spiritual and the physical are not - as the Greek metaphysical worldview taught - completely separate realms, but interacting realities.  Our spiritual transformation affects us physically.  What Paul is speaking about, then, involves a transformation of our thinking minds - our rationality and our imaginations.  McGrath mentions this several times when proposing his new approach to Natural theology, suggesting that the Christian vision of reality is a transformed one and one which allows us to see the world in a certain way.  That doesn't just extend to the natural sciences, but to all areas of life and ultimately even to how we view our faith itself.

So, I'm not suggesting we need to invent theologies or visions of God to pass on to others, but we must use all of our minds as much as all of our hearts, strength and souls when we love God and the transformed Christian imagination is very much a part of that process.  We should not stifle it, but within the guidance of scripture and the Spirit, let it help us explore and express our beliefs and the wonderful deeds and personality of our gracious God.

Until next time, then, go well!

Insecurity [Grace] Identity

Another week of Lent, another blog. I thought, in fact, that I had run out of things to say and, since I have not yet finished the book I'm currently reading, I didn't even have a review I could muster to fill this (admittedly irregular) posting schedule. As always seems to be the case at the moment, however, something occured to me - I would suggest 'was given to me', but I don't want to claim any authority I do not have - and I realised I have another post in me after all.

But first, the usual update: no fiction consumed, several more sermons listened to, prayerfulness increasing (ish), a greater knowledge of God's presence gained , an increasing eagerness to talk about faith and issues surrounding it growing within me... This isn't to say, however, that it has been easy, or that I haven't struggled with the temptation to break my Lent, or skip a bible reading opportunity; nor is it to say that all those positive fruit seen above abound every moment, or even every day. Sometimes this feels very stale. Sometimes God still feels distant. Sometimes I just don't care as I should. This is, sadly, normal for humans. It shouldn't be, but then that's why we need God's grace, which brings me neatly to my topic for today - or it will be seen to have done, by the time I have reached my conclusion, because we'll start, as we almost always do, not with grace, but with a moment of human weakness.

I'm part of a group of young men in my church who are working together, under the oversight of our Minister, to learn and to improve our preaching skills, or rather, handling the Bible in a number of different, public ministries. Part of this has involved doing a three week stint of leading the morning services - welcoming everyone, introducing hymns, praying and generally aiding in bringing the congregation worshipfully before God.

I have not yet done this, ostensibly because of the birth of my daughter and the time commitment having a small baby entails. One morning this week, however, when the minister mentioned it to me and noted that it might be difficult to find a block for me with my Sunday School commitments, I let slip the real reason: "Also, it's terrifying!" I said.

Now, standing up on front of people is always going to pretty scary, I understand, but as I contemplated this afterwards, I realised it wasn't primarily stage fright I was suffering from, but a much deeper insecurity about church leadership. I don't feel like I'm qualified to lead a congregation of Christians in anything. Now, putting aside for a moment the relevance of a concept like qualification with regard to Christian ministry, why do I feel this way?

I think there are a number of factors involved, and if you'll forgive me going on about myself like this (I'm the only person I know will enough to use so an example, after all), these are the ones I think are the biggest issues:

1) I'm acutely aware that I don't come from a Christian background and, despite the fact that I became a Christian when I was only eleven, I didn't really get heavily involved in a church community until I moved to Aberdeen to go to university. Even though that was over eleven years ago now, I still feel rather new at this.

2) I have a somewhat more liberal approach to faith and politics than many of my brothers and sisters in the congregation. I'm still very much an evangelical, and newspapers would happily label me as a conservative Christian, but I believe that the church should not legislate the lives of non-Christians and so take a back seat at times in some of the more controversial debates of the day.

3) I have a scientific background. Even before I became a Christian, I thought myself to be a kind of scientist and used that as an excuse not to listen to what my Christian friends were trying to tell me about God. Once I was on the other side, however, whole other issues came up, most notably the ongoing Creation vs. Evolution debate, which hit me hard, and left me feeling rather lonely, during the evolutionary biology parts of my Zoology degree. I have since reconciled science and the Bible to my satisfaction (mostly), but I still feel a sense of separation from many I worship with when I wonder how they'd feel about my position on these issues.

4) I am a geek. I love sci-fi and fantasy, video games, graphic novels, and so on. I've kinda touched on this before and it might not sound like much of a barrier, but in my mind, knowing that I don't share the secular interests of most of the rest of my fellowship further adds to my sense of myself as 'outsider'.

Ignore, at this stage, whether or not I might be right about any of this and just imagine how I might then feel to lead any group of Christians in worship, prayer, or studying the word of God and you begin to see what kind of terror it is that I've been experiencing.

But if you're one of the people who have been shouting at the screen by this stage you'll already see why I need a radical change in my perception of the situation. All of the above presupposes several things:

1) That all kinds of spiritual leadership require qualifications beyond a saving faith in the triune God. Yes, there are helpful theological qualifications and there are gifts and talents bestowed and developed in the believer by God, but if He sends you, then you go. Many biblical figures questioned their fitness to be leaders when God called them (Moses is the typical example) but God didn't call them because of their fitness, He called them because He knew what He would do with them and that it was good.

2) That personality traits, political views, scientific understanding, matters of conscience, hobby choices, intelligence quotient, imagination or lack thereof and any number of other supposed identity markers matter in the the grand schemes of the Kingdom of God. Yes, we're all individuals, and yes what makes us different is both part of God's gloriously diverse creation and a cause of no small amounts of frustration and strife between believers, but neither the believer, nor the church, acquires its identity from any of these things.

Our identity is found in our trinitarian God: God the Father, Jesus Christ His Son, our Saviour and the Holy Spirit, our comforter, counsellor and advocate. The Church is united to each other and to Christ and that means we can put aside our differences in his presence when they would threaten to separate us.

3) That it really matters what others think of me. Given the above two points, I need to keep reminding myself that though others opinion of me can affect my witness and leadership, it should certainly not hinder my attempts at it, especially within the church. I do not present myself, but point to God. If someone doesn't like the way I do that, or some other facet of my being, all I can do is keep pointing to God. "Don't look at me, " I must shout, "look at Him!"

And this brings me back to the start of all this, the thing that holds all those points together, and which should be foremost in our minds when we deal with other believers. God's good grace. It is by grace that we are saved to be united with Christ as part of His Church, by grace we are called to serve and by grace given the gifts to carry out that calling. There is nothing of us in that save what God gave us in the first place, for we are His creatures, His children.

And we must try to treat other believers with that same loving grace, knowing that it is at work in them as in us and whatever our pasts, personalities, politics or pastimes, we would not even be in the Church without the grace of God. There but for the grace of God go I, after all.

And so to my terror. It is wrong. It is a sign of a lack of trust in God, of an insecure worldly way of thinking that has no place in a life lived in Christ. I must put it behind me and step up to the calling that has been made, to the increase of God's glory and the diminution of the self. I know what I need to do, I just pray for the courage and commitment and, above all else, the grace - all from God - to carry it out.

Until next time, go well.