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.

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!