It's not only the name of a virus, but also a sign of hope in the darkness
Most recent reflection comes first; scroll down for previous reflections
Saturday 15
August 2020
The masks we
wear
I’ve discovered a great advantage to wearing a face mask (apart from the apparent public health benefit). I can talk to myself without people staring at me and presumably thinking that either I’m speaking to them or that I’m going out of my mind. In ordinary times, I have to mumble without moving my lips, which would be fine if I was a children’s entertainer holding a ventriloquist’s dummy but that skill has so far evaded me.
I can’t be the only person who finds it disconcerting when a person walks by, staring straight ahead, and holding a loud conversation through an invisible hands free device. The earpiece gives it away, but I don’t see that until I’ve been staring (or giving them a wide berth) for too long. Behind a mask, though, I can mutter away quietly and the small mouth movements can easily be mistaken for the extra effort required to breathe through the thing. Maybe masks should be mandatory for mobile hands free conversations.
There are disadvantages to masks too, of course. One is that it’s harder (for me, anyway) to recognise someone else wearing one, or even to be recognised by them. The eyes don’t always have it, and people have the annoying habit of not wearing the same recognisable clothes whenever they go out. So unwittingly snubbing people has become an occupational hazard of the new normal.
An even worse disadvantage is that it’s impossible to give a smile without some major facial contortion of raised cheeks and screwed-up eyes. The mask hides pleasure and gratitude, thereby robbing checkout assistants and others of the occasional ray of human sunshine in their otherwise monotonous day. Indeed, even conversation is more difficult. Words become muffled or slurred without the aid of alcohol.
“Masking” is a common term that we use for hiding something. Bad news is released quietly by an institution in the hope that few will notice it when people’s attention is on some grand event. Bold claims in a glossy brochure mask the exceptions and warnings hidden in the endless very small print. In previous eras, actors wore masks to convey their stage character. Our word “hypocrite” comes directly from a Greek word for a stage actor.
And masking, and acting, can be a staple part of everyday human behaviour. We put on what we consider to be our best face, hiding our disappointment, pain, anxiety or fear behind a false joviality or “stiff upper lip”. “I’m fine”, we say, when in fact we’re not. We mask our true feelings sometimes with good intentions. We don’t want to bother others with our problems; we feel embarrassed by confessing our weakness; we are afraid that they will look down on us or offer inappropriate clichés when what we really need is sheer human understanding and support.
There are other less noble masks that may cover someone’s true nature. Some people feel forced to don styles of dress and makeup to conform to arbitrary opinions of good looks. The bouncy confidence and friendliness of a cowboy tradesperson or telephone scammer hides their intention of fleecing us. The seemingly innocent relationship slowly developed by someone who at heart is an abuser or fraudster. The aggressive behaviour of someone who underneath is deeply insecure or power-hungry, asserting their imagined superiority in order to keep others “in their place”.
Perhaps the most profound truth of the Christian faith is that all human masks are invisible to God who sees through them. And who still loves us and cares about us just as we are, warts and all.
Friday 17 July
2020
Behave myself?
The problem
with getting out more after three months of lockdown (see previous entry below)
is that I no longer know how to behave in company. Avoiding people in the
street is almost second nature. But obeying the new protocols is not.
So there I am
at the door of an almost empty small health food shop, knowing exactly where my
requirement lies on a shelf at the far end of an empty aisle. My first step
across the threshold is halted by an authoritative voice from the till which
requests that I wait outside. I step back, reducing social distance with the
person behind to less than the regulatory minimum and almost standing on their
toes.
My eyes scan
the shop window full of colourful posters advertising CBD oil, protein
supplements and vitamins and see a small black and white notice announcing that
only two people are allowed in the shop at any one time. I peer through the open
door. There’s three in there plus the cashier! So when one comes out I inch
forward only to have the voice of the till-god once more threatening me with
detention. Why were they allowed and I’m not? “Discrimination” leaps into my
mind followed quickly by “favouritism”. She must have eyes all over her head,
too, because she never looked up. Omni-visual. Omniscient. I shudder at the
theological reminder that I am never out of Someone’s sight.
Then there was
the tradesman who called to give a quote for some external work. We shook
hands. Only later did I recall that we were supposed to bump elbows instead. Or
bow, or something. Then I recalled watching Boris Johnson the other day bumping
up to three people in a meet and greet line and thinking how stupid it looked.
Besides, with my stiff joints and slow co-ordination I’d probably poke their
eye out or leave them with bruised ribs, depending on our relative heights. I
did remember to wash my hands when he left, though. But then I always do; I
hate touching sweaty palms.
Learning new
behaviours is difficult. Old habits die hard and new ones take time to form.
Fortunately the human brain is plastic; that is, neural pathways can be
diverted from their deep-set grooves and redirected into fresh tracks at any
age. The problem is that the old behavioural ruts are so worn that we slip back
into them the moment our attention is distracted and mindful alertness gives
way to mental autopilot.
Which is
probably why we pick and mix the virtues outlined by Jesus and St Paul. We pick
the easiest and simplest to practise and mix or dilute the rest with the ingrained
attitudes and actions that are literally second nature. “Blessed are the peacemakers”
becomes “blessed are those who don’t get involved”. “Do not take revenge” is restricted
to “never speak kindly to or about that person again”.
I must learn to
behave myself in the new normal. I should have expected it, of course. Paul
wrote about reconditioning the brain in Romans 12; “let God remould your minds
from within”, in JB Philip’s memorable paraphrase. The voice of the till-god
takes on a new meaning. “Would you please wait a moment, sir?”
Monday 6 July
Must I get out more?
A voice in my
head, sounding suspiciously like a chorus from my children, tells me that I
should get out more. But a combination of inherent laziness, the lethargy that
comes from advancing years, and the continuing Covid-19 restrictions and
confusing “advice”, makes the prospect rather daunting.
I’ve got used
to being at home: pottering, sorting, tidying, gardening, reading, writing,
Zooming, Skyping, jigsawing, telly watching. I’ve ventured out a few times, for
a quick walk round the park or a visit to a largely deserted shop first thing
in the morning. And once a week, exercising the car for half an hour around the
area, to avoid its joints seizing up and its battery wasting away like my
underused limbs and muscles.
And then
there’s the queues. My regular hairdresser has not created an appointments
system. Other shops, unlike many tourist attractions, do not issue timed
visitor tickets. So the prospect of queuing outside for half an hour waiting my
turn makes my legs ache just thinking about it. It’s not the added time it
takes; pensioners have plenty of that. What we don’t have is the stamina.
Perhaps along
with the ubiquitous hand sanitiser, shops and local authorities should provide
rows of benches (or deck chairs) outside large stores. But then, of course,
someone would have to spray them every time the queue moved up a place. Not
very nice work even if you could get it, but it would keep queuers on their
toes, getting up and down like participants in a home exercise session.
Of course, the
risk of going out and catching the virus is actually very low. Bald national
statistics sound scary, but the incidence of infection per 100,000 population
is small. There really isn’t an awful lot of it about; just some of it. The
problem is, we don’t know where the gremlin is lurking, looking for a hapless
victim to invade. It doesn’t discriminate (unlike some people, but that’s
another issue) and it can be deadly.
But then, all
life carries risk. Human bodies and minds have inbuilt obsolescence, a limited
shelf life. My Christian faith tells me that I was made to spend eternity with
my Maker after a relatively short and mostly error-prone apprenticeship on
planet Earth. Life was always going to be more of a trek through a dense jungle
than a picnic in the park. Just look at the problems Jesus faced, and he was a
cut above the rest.
However, I do
have a Guide through the forest, a constant Companion and Encourager who is
never more than a prayer away, for which I’m truly grateful. So there really isn’t
anything to fear, whatever happens, apart from the debilitating effects of my
over-fertile imagination which tends to assume the worst. What was it Sydney
Carter sang? “One more step along the way I go … keep me travelling along with
You.”
So I really
will try to get out more. Maybe next week.
Monday 15 June 2020
Listen to the trumpet
If you believe
in the value of prayer (whether or not you believe in its effectiveness) you
must also believe that Someone can in one way or another respond. That is,
spiritual communication must be two-way. Otherwise there is no point in
praying.
That being the
case, C.S. Lewis’ oft-quoted words are extremely important at this time of
pandemic: “God whispers to us in our pleasures, speaks in our conscience, but
shouts in our pains” (The Problem of Pain).
His point is that we have to attune our ears to what God may be saying at any
time.
Right now,
there is a lot of pain around. There have been over 60,000 deaths in the UK in
excess of what would be expected at the time of year, it is thought mostly due
to Covid-19. That is a medium-sized town-ful of bodies and a city-ful of
grieving friends and relatives.
Then there is
the expected surge of redundancies on top of those that have already occurred,
when the government’s support for employees slackens off. Plus the recently
announced plummeting of GDP in a manner never previously known and the long and
deep recession that will flow from it. That will cause hardship and anxiety
especially among people least able to weather economic storms.
Pain, pain and
more pain. That’s a big shout. A scream, even. The sort of scream that a caring
bystander emits when they see another person about to plunge into an abyss or
fall from a building, be engulfed by flames or attacked by a wild animal. A
scream of horror, a shout of warning: step back! Look out! The bystander can
see the possible result of the person’s predicament. The person has to choose
to listen and then act to avoid the danger.
 |
| The Trumpets of the Book of Revelation were meant to rouse a deaf world and lead to a change of heart |
The biblical
record is full of divine shouts of warning as people in different generations
and settings wander into spiritual and social minefields and spiral down a
vortex of moral and political mismanagement. They do so because they have free
will, limited perspective and selfish short-term ambitions. The omniscient
Eternal can see where they are heading but will not forcibly stop them, not
because he is powerless but by choice to avoid violating their God-given
independence. But God, who never stops caring, does shout a warning. Time and
time again. God is patient, kind, hopeful that humankind will hear, stop,
listen and turn from danger. He must be getting very hoarse.
With that in
mind I have been re-reading the biblical book of Revelation with the aid of
Michael Wilcock’s readable and simple introductory commentary, I saw heaven opened (IVP). He points
out, as do many others, that the visions of the apocalypse are not a forecast
of some final cataclysm (except for the two last chapters) but a series of
vivid pictorial and poetic images each depicting recurring events throughout
human history. And the overarching message is that God is trying to attract the
attention of the wider world. I’ll leave it to Wilcock to summarise the message
in the trumpets of chapters 8-9, with my brief comment on last week’s Covid-19
developments, to follow.
“The Trumpets
show the wicked world being offered mercy. The offer is not accepted, and the
world will not in fact repent (9:20f), but let it never be said that God has
not done all in his power, even to the destruction of his own once perfect
earth, in order to bring them to their senses. …
“The
death-dealing horsemen of Trumpet 6 are not tanks and planes. Or not only tanks
and planes. They are also cancers and road accidents and malnutrition and
terrorist bombs and peaceful demises in nursing homes. Yet ‘the rest of
mankind, who were not killed by these plagues’, still do not repent of their
idolatry, the centring of their lives on anything rather than God, or of the
evils which inevitably flow from it. They hear of pollution, of inflation, of
dwindling resources, of blind politicians, and will not admit that the … Trumpets
of God are sounding … not even in bereavement will they repent. …
“Six trumpet
blasts represent every possible chance for repentance which he can offer to
man. Even then, it is not his patience, but man’s ability to respond, which is
exhausted. The stage is reached at which there is no point in offering further
opportunities, for man has hardened himself beyond the possibility of
repenting.”
That was
written 45 years ago. During the Covid-19 lockdown many people have slowed
down, realising that there is more to life than getting and spending: a weak,
but tangible, form of repentance. Now, the government proposes extending Sunday
shopping hours so that we can speed up again (with echoes of Amos 8:5 – look it
up). And the headline message from government this weekend was: “go out and
spend to save the economy”. The latest divine shout, calling us to change our
ways permanently, is being ignored by the very people who have the power to
restrain our wayward, idolatrous and reckless consumerism. And that despite the
underlying message of the Black Lives Matter demonstrations – that all people
matter more than any things.
May the
governed be less deaf than the governors. For the other message of Revelation
is that the church – those who remain faithful to God and his purposes – while
they undergo the same traumas will not be subject to the same eternal retribution
reserved for the idolaters who cannot see further than their GDP. Listen to the
trumpet, and be warned.
Tech tonic or tectonic?
The lock-down
has, for some at least, been a tech tonic. It has produced a surge in
electronic communication – not that it was at a low ebb before. But with some
40 per cent of workers having opted to work from home at least temporarily and
meetings of all kinds (including those of government) using Skype, Zoom, and
other conferencing platforms, there has been a small revolution in essential
interaction. (And a decline in broadband speeds because of increased demand in
many parts of the country.)
Some of us have
had to master – or at least come to terms with – new skills, perhaps including
online banking and shopping as well as socialising. A primary school teacher I
know has been holding Zoom meetings with her class while the school has been
closed – and she’s not alone. Churches across the country have created new
on-line resources and streamed services which have increased their “congregations”
considerably. One of my local free churches has seen an 800 per cent increase
in its on-line traffic. Even if (or when) “normal” activities are resumed, the
new ways will need to be continued in tandem if the current interest in things
spiritual is not to be lost.
Being forcibly
thrown onto greater use of technology has been a tonic, of sorts. It’s opened
up new ways of doing things which could, in the long run, be more efficient and
conducive to well-being. Working from home, for example, could become much more
common for at least part of the week for many people, leaving more space for
family and wider pursuits, and simply to “breathe”.
But there’s
another meaning of tectonic. It’s the word given to the sometimes devastating
shift of continental plates that causes earthquakes that destroy people and
places. In 1923 Tokyo had one that killed 200,000 people; it was a tenth of the
size it is today and because of its geographical location the city is overdue
another major quake this decade. So too, of course, is San Francisco. Covid-19
is not the only challenge for the world to prepare for and face. (Interestingly
the vivid imagery in the Bible of “the day of the Lord” suggests catastrophic meteor
strikes, earthquakes, volcanic explosions, solar flares and the like. We know
they really are possible future hazards.)
 |
| Icelandic lava field and hot spring - evidence of tectonic and volcanic activity |
The changes
caused by lock-down measures could also be tectonic in their long-term effects:
they will shake the western world into new ways of working and living. Suppose
home working becomes the norm for many office-based employees: what will that
do to the use and cost of office buildings especially in city centres?
On-line
shopping was already increasing, causing local High Streets and small
businesses to lose out; a number will either never return later this month when
they are allowed to, or find they cannot survive for long because the social
distancing measures and reduced footfall will make them unviable unless rents
and other overheads are drastically reduced. Can they survive this quake?
And then there
are the people for whom such changes will have tectonic effects. People who
cannot afford computers or tablets and high speed broadband. Older people who
simply can’t operate it well even if they have it. (Two members of my church home
group can’t join our Zoom meetings; one because the broadband is too slow, and
one, aged 80+, because they can barely use it.) Then there are those displaced
by collapsed businesses, and people with low levels of education (which isn’t
necessarily their fault) who have little to offer in a changing job market. A
tidal wave of mental insecurity and social unrest could follow the shake-ups.
The future is
fragile. But I’m also reminded of the accusation levelled at St Paul and his
friends of “turning the world upside down” (Acts 17:6, NRSV). Theirs was a good
effect. The tectonic changes could become a tonic for church and society, if we
approach them with thought, imagination, and compassion.
Saturday 30 May 2020
Confusion amidst the clichés
I had not
intended to return to communications issues (see below, Wednesday 15 April) but
necessity demands. Not just because of Dominic Cummings’ extraordinary press
conference this week defending the indefensible (about which more in a moment)
but because of the proliferation of clichés being offered as unsatisfactory answers
to serious questions. So here’s a quick round-up for those whose facility in interpreting
Ministerial-speak has grown a little rusty.
Everybody understands: No they don’t. Such a cliché is
patronising. Journalists are not especially thick or deaf. It’s because you haven’t
answered the questions we’re all asking (or trying to). Maybe you don’t
understand, either?
It’s quite clear (1): No, it isn’t. See previous answer. Or
isn’t it clear to you either?
The right thing at the right time: According to who? Scientists don’t
fully agree with each other so who decides what’s right when? And by the way,
why didn’t we lock down earlier as some scientists urged and why are we now
taking big risks in unlocking now, as some scientists assert? Was it in fact
because you did not have stockpiles of medical equipment and PPE? And that you
are frightened now by the mounting bills? Why did your emergency planners assume
that any pandemic would be flu and not a hitherto unknown disease, seeing that
it’s not the first “unknown” to have hit the planet (see HIV, Sars, Ebola etc.).
That’s a political question and I won’t
allow the scientists to answer it: Dear
Boris, you are becoming more of a Trumpovian dictator every day. Sir Patrick
Vallance and Professor Chris Whitty are perfectly capable of saying themselves that
they cannot comment on your adviser’s journey to test his eyesight just as they
would refuse to comment on any specific clinical case. We do await publication
of their memoirs with great anticipation, however.
We made care homes a priority from the
beginning: Wrong. You
assumed (a) that asymptomatic or even ill people would not be discharged from
hospital into them, (b) that even so ill residents would be totally isolated
and would not spread the disease, and (c) that no-one in their right mind would
come or go into such a place anyway and risk transmitting it. Adult social care
has been neglected so long that it seems barely to have registered on your
radar at all at first.
Protect the NHS: This, being interpreted, means that
successive governments have so under-resourced the NHS that they’ve been found
wanting and need us to help them out. Anyway, it’s people you’re supposed to be protecting, not an institution. From
the virus, not from embarrassment. The NHS is there to respond to a crisis. I
mean, what would you say if it was overwhelmed by a major disaster like a
meteor strike or nationwide hurricane?
Our thoughts are with the families and
friends of those who have died:
OK, so you’ve got to show some human feeling in public and words like this trip
easily off the tongue. But seriously, do you think we actually buy that? You’re
simply sugaring the bitter pill of alarming statistics. If you mean it, how
about a card or letter from Number 10 to the next of kin saying I’m sorry, we
really let you down by letting this infernal virus spread before we took action.
Signed Boris. Or what about swift legislation to make the cumbersome and
stressful process of dealing with the deceased’s affairs more straightforward
and less bureaucratic than it is, seeing that many more people than usual have
to face it at a time when access to assistance is itself partly locked down?
It’s perfectly clear (2): Dominic Cummings, in his own view and
that of the Prime Minister, acted (largely – probably not completely, according
to Durham police) in accordance with the guidelines. “It is quite clear that
some wriggle room is allowed in extreme cases” we were subsequently told. OK:
how do you define extreme? And when were we actually told that? Please don’t
say it’s in the 50 pages of guidelines. Most people, even in lockdown, have
better things to do than read screeds on the government website. All we ever
heard was Hancock, Raab, etc staring at the camera and ordering: Stay at home!
So we did. Even in extreme circumstances. And we didn’t think of wriggling. Or using discretion.
No wonder we’re
confused. The wriggling can only get worse as we try to interpret the latest “rules”
about easing. Maybe if you’d been more upfront and straightforward earlier …
but I’ve already said that. I’ll change the subject next week.
Friday 22 May 2020
Fly in the eye
A sunny spring
day. Sitting in the garden under the shade of a tree. A book: Bill Bryson’s A short history of nearly everything – a heavy one (in weight, more than content; Bryson’s
enviable gift is explaining complexity simply). I have the illustrated hardback
version, 623 pages of (probably) 100gsm coated paper. It rests on my knees; holding it makes my arms ache.
Across the grey
dappled patterns cast on the pages by the branches and pine needles above there
is a moving darker shadow, as large as an average word but fatter. Moving is a
relative term. It rests in one spot. Moves away a little and then returns. The
regular shifting is distracting. It is not the gentle sway of branch or leaf. I
look up. Two feet from my eyes, catching a ray of sun, is a hoverfly. Or a
hovering fly.
Outdoor insects
I can tolerate, whether they buzz and potentially sting or not. (Hoverflies
don’t sting.) They pollinate my plants and some eat the aphids that prey on them.
But dancing shadows across Bryson’s mostly entertaining and always enlightening
prose I cannot tolerate. My eye follows the shadow automatically like pigs
following the swineherd shaking a food bucket. The shadow does not move
systematically from left to right along successive lines of print. It goes
backwards. Or leaps from one line to the next mid-sentence. Bryson, God forbid,
becomes unintelligible.
The creature
has its back to me. Being a kindly soul I decide to encourage it pneumatically
to move to a different location: I blow on it. It bucks and sways like a leaf
in a gale before coming to rest in exactly the same place. Only now it’s
looking straight at me. Staring at me with what seem to be huge eyes and a look
of disapproval on its face. How dare I disturb its meditation. (Meanwhile, of
course, I have probably seeded a hurricane in Florida or a typhoon in the Far East
by disturbing the air flow. Bryson is full of little thoughts like that.)
Indeed, it’s little
things that make up a big part of the book. Little, as in small. Minute. Micro.
Sub atomic. So small, in fact, that they’re massive, relatively speaking. Such
as the number of molecules (which are bigger than atoms) in 2 grams of hydrogen
gas: it’s as many as the number of popcorn kernals needed to cover the USA to a
depth of nine miles, or cupfuls of water in the Pacific Ocean. Or so Bryson
claims. And that’s quite apart from the countless billions of bacteria that
generally are beneficial, and the even smaller but fewer yet more deadly viruses
about which we are currently all too aware.
Covid-19 is the
latest little thing to make an impact on the world. It probably won’t be the
last. H.G. Wells’ vision of giant Martian machines invading Earth in The War of the Worlds has the aliens
(spoiler alert) collapsing in droves “after all man’s devices had failed” to
kill them. Their fleshy other-worldly crews simply succumbed to “the humblest
things that God, in his wisdom, has put upon this earth” – bacteria to which
they, unlike humans, had no natural or herd immunity.
Whether lethal
viruses were originally planted by God or are the result of the corruption of
physical matter in the aeons since is a matter of speculation. The fact is,
they’re here. And they can wreak havoc among us. Small things can still get the
better of us. The humblest things are there, perhaps, to humble us. Maybe
hoverflies are not so bad after all.
Friday 15 May 2020
Vanity of vanities, all is compost
I was reminded
this week of an old, probably apocryphal, story. (And if apocryphal, what sort
of mind actually invents such stories?) Young offspring of a vicarage were
playing at funerals, presumably interring a decapitated Barbie or an action man
mortally wounded in combat. They had presumably watched their father performing
funerals in the churchyard using an older version of the service, but were
blissfully unaware of the finer points of the Christian doctrine of the Trinity
which permeate it.
As the solemn
ceremony reached its climax, the officiating child pronounced the final words:
“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and into the hole he goes.”
I was reminded
of it because I was painstakingly chopping and shredding garden waste to bury
in the black hole of my compost bin. Our bags of weeds and clippings had begun
to exceed our capacity to store them, and the local tip has been closed since
the lockdown. But in one of his many books, Alan Titchmarsh says we can pile
all weeds, roots and all, onto the compost heap. And if he says it, it must be
OK (assuming I didn’t read that in one of his novels). Although he does have a
lot to answer for. His advocacy of timber decking is one of them; we had to
take ours up and replace it with gravel because the maintenance was horrendous.
And then it rotted.
I always did compost
my weeds when we had a much larger garden, but ceased doing it when, having
spread the resultant fertiliser on the vegetable plot, it seemed to promote a
greater growth of weeds than of edible crops. So ever since we have donated
them to the recycling company’s anaerobic digester as a charitable contribution
to the national economy (they bag and sell the resulting compost). I have occasionally had second thoughts,
though, because commercial compost and manure seems to produce just as many
weeds as the home made stuff.
So into the
hole the green matter went and we patiently await a fresh crop of buttercups
and assorted unidentifiable and inedible sproutings some time next year. Then,
of course, they opened the tip this week, just after I’d finished.
But I have
saved the petrol in driving to the tip, and another few pounds in buying a bag
of weedy soil improver. And I’ve just been reminded by Bill Bryson’s A short history of nearly everything
(which figures in the entry, above, for 22 May) that the amount of matter in the
universe remains constant. It just changes shape and form.
Or as it was in
the beginning, is now and ever shall be, world without end, Amen. Except that
the world will end. And St Paul says that then the perishable shall put on the
imperishable. So does that mean that there will be everlasting weeds in heaven,
then to be known as they once were, as the lilies of the field?
Friday 8 May 2020
Repairing the fences
According to
some reports, 60 per cent of the population are nervous of, if not scared by,
the prospect of returning to relatively crowded places when the lockdown eases.
They (we) fear contracting Covid-19 before an effective treatment and or
vaccine is developed and the virus largely eliminated or neutralised.
And according
to an internet search, all the fence paint in the country has disappeared from
every DIY store. Everyone is painting their fences. Except us, because we didn’t
buy it when we saw it in Wilko's several weeks before we planned to refresh our
peeling panels. Because that was a week before the iron curtain of enforced
isolation descended and turned our home into a fortified castle.
Panic buying of
flour I can understand (but hardly forgive). Panic buying of fence paint is a
darker crime. So (and here’s a possible topic for someone’s PhD thesis), is
there a psychological link between the widespread fear of exposing our fragile
corona virus defences and repairing our physical fences?
There is not,
so far as I know, any virus-killing ingredient in fence paint (although
President Trump may have other ideas based, perhaps, on the similarity of its
colour to a cooked hamburger). So if my neighbour sneezes over the fence I’m
just as susceptible to inhaling a germ as I would be if we passed too close in
the street.
Fear can be as
contagious as the disease. And fear breeds hate. Soon, we could be seeing germs
emanating from every person like a bad smell from a bin and shrink further from
social contact. That’s not fanciful. In the 1960s people feared “reds under the
beds”, communists infiltrating every level of society. During the war years we
are currently remembering in the anniversary of VE Day there was widespread fear
and reporting of strangers who might be ”fifth columnists” preparing for a
German invasion of Britain.
Fear and hatred
are not conducive to social cohesion, and can lead to unprovoked and
unwarranted violence. The person not wearing a mask, or coughing as they pass
by could become targets for attack. But our fear of Covid-19 may also relate to
our fear of death. People die every day, and in considerable numbers, but most
of us are aware only of the exceptions to the rule of life – an elderly
relative, or the local victim of an accident or murder. But just now, the tally
of deaths is reported every day and the cumulative total from the UK epidemic is
currently equal to the population of the town where I live. It makes death seem
much closer and more fearsome.
“It’s not that
I’m afraid to die,” the comedian and film director Woody Allen once said. “I
just don’t want to be there when it happens.” But it will happen, for us all.
Which is why biblical promises need to be taken seriously, if only to release
us from the paralysing grip of fear. “There is no fear in love. But perfect
love drives out fear, because fear has to do with punishment” (1 John 4:18).
That’s the
clue. The prospect of death awakens in us the vestigial awareness that we’re
accountable to an eternal Moderator of human conduct. Only being assured of the
love of God mediated through Christ’s death and resurrection, with its
subsequent promise of forgiveness and eternal life, can free us from fearing
it.
For when that
day comes, we won’t be able to hide behind the fence. Or even sit on it.
Thursday 30 April 2020
Burning the leaves (a more serious note)
Not for a long
time will we be able to say glibly “there’s a lot of it about”, as we do with
various colds, flu and winter bugs. Corona virus will be with us for quite a
while, and cannot be so easily shrugged off. Until there is an effective treatment
or widespread vaccine, restrictions of some kind will be in place for probably
years to come.
The aftermath
is already looking like the devastation following a hurricane or tsunami. Businesses
bankrupted, jobs lost, homes repossessed; negative equity, depleted savings
(for those lucky enough to have any); yet greater levels of stress and mental
illness. Whatever “normal” is, it will be different to anything three
generations have ever known.
This could be a
good thing if it results in more consideration for key workers and the
environment, and if it increases our social cohesiveness and reduces our
obsession with material growth. But just now it takes some getting used to. The
past week or two have been additionally stressful as family members face hard
decisions about possible redundancy, rent demands, and the need to relocate. The
hurricane is still blowing, the after-waves of the tsunami still rolling.
The final two
stanzas of Lawrence Binyon’s poem The
burning of the leaves are pertinent.
Now is the time for
stripping the spirit bare,
Time for the burning of
days ended and done,
Idle solace of things that
have gone before:
Rootless hopes and
fruitless desire are there;
Let them go to the fire, with
never a look behind.
The world that was ours is
a world that is ours no more.
Or, as St Paul
wrote in a different context, “the old has gone, the new has come”.
So what of
hope? There is always hope, for Christians at least. Not merely hope that, as
the politicians keep repeating, “We’ll beat this” with the implication that
life will return to what it was. We probably will beat it (until something else
comes along; we’ve been overdue a cyclical winter flu pandemic for several
years). But life will not be the same again. “The world that was ours is a
world that is ours no more.” Rather, hope lies in God’s continued loving presence
in good times and changing times, in this life and the next. And as Binyon
concludes, it lies also in the ability of life to adapt.
They will come again, the
leaf and the flower, to arise
From squalor of rottenness
into the old splendour,
And magical scents to a
wondering memory bring;
The same glory, to shine
upon different eyes.
Earth cares for her own
ruins, naught for ours.
Nothing is certain, only
the certain spring.
The earth is more
robust than the economy. Nature is more adaptable than national lifestyle. Autumn
leaves are brittle. “Let them go to the fire.” The scientists tell us there are
“green shoots”, signs that the virus is abating, slowly. From a personal and
public health perspective, we hope they are right.
But “Nothing is
certain”. It never has been. We’ve been deluded into thinking that what is
temporary is permanent, and so look for someone to blame when the old
foundations are shaken, forgetting that we’ve built them on sand, not rock. That
“idle solace” was drawn from “rootless hopes and fruitless desire”. Time,
perhaps, to become more realistic, and accept that human life is fragile and
uncertain. Which is what people in the developing world have always known. But
we’ve never listened to them.
Monday 20 April 2020
We shall eat cake (and cabbage)
Owing to the
fact that the House Elf has been singled out by a government computer as being one
of a highly vulnerable endangered species, we have been designated a regular
weekly delivery slot from a supermarket. We shall therefore have cake, for a
while, cake being among the more essential constituents of any self-respecting
kitchen cupboard.
However, owing
to the somewhat erratic ordering habits of the aforesaid Elf, we only had two small
cakes, but a surfeit of cabbage. So, in a rare consultation with soup recipe
books (which I only ever use for ideas, never for instructions), I discovered
that cabbage has always been the food of the poor. Well, that fits. It’s cheaper
than cake.
What the book
didn’t say was that cabbage soup was also the specialité de maison in the Russian Gulag and Japansese POW camps.
That fits, too, in our current house arrest conditions. In fact, when I was working
in Moscow in 1991 a hotel was still serving it up as the only option. It was eat
it or starve. The chef presumably had transferred his basic skills from public institution
to private enterprise.
However, with a
little imagination, some rubbery parsnips, onions, garlic, a selection of
spices from the rack (kitchen rack, not torture rack) and a stray tin of
chickpeas found lurking at the back of the cupboard, we have a batch of soup to
last a few days. With some added cornflour and soya flour, it’s thicker and
more nutritious than the Russian version, too.
Which brings me
back to cake, a basic requirement to follow soup. Not even the kind delivery
man from Asda had been able to bring us any flour, which is said to be in even
shorter supply than personal protective equipment is for health workers. They’ve
been told to re-use some PPE; flour, however, is strictly single use.
My daughter sent
me a recipe for flourless chocolate cake she found on the internet. It came, I
think, from America, which could go some way to explaining the obesity epidemic
that’s even greater than the Covid-19 epidemic in that strange country. From
the accompanying picture it looked like a solid bar of chocolate with added
fat, eggs and sugar.
But there was a
bit of plain flour in the cupboard. To pad it out I added some of our more
abundant cornflour and soya flour and a good helping of sodium bicarbonate.
With cocoa powder, of course. And sultanas. Eggs (well out of date but not
odiferous), oil and sugar we had. The result was quite edible. We shall eat
cake for a few days.
It’s what they
used to call making do. But I have ensured that the next delivery order will
contain more than two custard doughnuts.
Wednesday 15
April 2020
Lessons in
public relations
A familiar
image from World War 2 is of a family glued to the wireless (as they called
radio in pre-TV times), listening to the latest update or message from the
Prime Minister. I never imagined doing something similar. But every day for the
past three weeks we’ve tuned in to the afternoon ministerial briefing and press
conference from Number Ten on the BBC News Channel.
This hasn’t
been solely out of genuine interest – and concern – about the spread of
covid-19 and the effects on everyday life of the lockdown rules. It’s also been
interesting from an erstwhile professional perspective, to see how the
participants communicate their message and handle questions.
There are
rules, and techniques, of crisis management, especially when an organisation is
forced on the defensive. I’ve used them in my former role as a media officer.
Rule number one is to be honest and admit what isn’t right or what went wrong.
Technique number one is to stress the positive without resorting to empty
clichés such as “the welfare and safety of our staff and customers is our top
priority”: say what you are doing to remedy the situation. And rule number two
is “be yourself”.
By and large
the politicians have been refreshingly honest, although they all suffer at
times from the tendency to be declamatory especially in their briefing
speeches. We just want to hear from real people, being themselves. Health
Secretary Matt Hancock has come the closest to the ideal, but he lacks the earnestness
(and gaffe-risking) spontaneity of Prime Minister Boris Johnson.
I wish one of
the Number Ten communications team would tell them all to turn down the
rhetoric, and write their scripts for them with some acknowledgement of each
person’s natural style and intonation. At times they come across almost robotically
in the style of an anonymous press release. Press officers’ rule number one:
study your Principal and help them to speak in a way that is authentic to
themselves. The scientists and medics sharing the podium have almost always
been excellent examples of natural, honest speaking, sometimes unscripted, even
though they clearly have been tutored to repeat the stock mantras as often as
possible.
The worst
performance so far has been that of Home Secretary Pritti Patel who took the
“never admit” instruction to a laughable (and also tragic) level when she was
asked to apologise for failures to get protective equipment to some hospitals:
“I’m sorry people feel that way,” she said. It came across as insufferably
arrogant and unfeeling. She would have done her credibility more favours if she
had said (which we know from other sources was perfectly true), “I’m sorry that
some supplies haven’t got through when and where they are needed, but we are
facing (a) huge demand, (b) a global shortage and (c) distribution challenges
all of which we’re working hard to address.” True, simple, honest and straightforward.
But at least
even she didn’t descend to the level of Donald Trump whose contradictory assertions
and bizarre allegations have revealed once more that the world’s most powerful
economy does not have a steady hand on its tiller. May he not rock the boat so
much that the whole world capsizes. And may one of his communications team have
the courage to tell him the truth, and the contacts to find another job quickly
after their inevitable and summary sacking. Speaking truth to power is never easy.
Sharing out the rations
I remember post war rationing. At least, I remember my mother
having to hand over ration books as well as money to shop keepers in exchange
for groceries. Some old, half-used ration books survive in a sort of memory
box; they’re probably worth something to collectors. I’ve even got a first
world war one that was my mother’s.
Rationing has returned in some stores although the
restrictions are now easing after the first bout of panic buying led to draconian
actions of check-out assistants refusing to scan more than two or three items
of certain products. How dare they! People drunk for years on choice and
personal freedom discovered the new anti-social crime of shop rage.
But rationing remains at home. Generally we rely on a friend
shopping for us. And we forget to put things on her list, which, were we in the
shop ourselves, we would have seen and remembered, on the list or not. So we go
without. But then, she remembers things too. One item she couldn’t get last
week, and was not on this week’s list, had reappeared in the shop, and she
bought it. Surprise, surprise.
That’s how it works. How it always worked until shops were
open all hours and stocked with 40,000 products most of which we never buy.
What you’ve got, you’ve got. What you haven’t, you haven’t. So you make do with
what you have got, and even learn to enjoy it. You learn to be thankful for
small things. We’re not under-nourished. It could be far worse.
The gap between what you have and what you want is elastic.
Stretched too widely and it becomes frustration, leading to all manner of
emotional, mental and even physical ills. It wastes energy, and clouds the
mind. But keep that gap narrow, even ignore it altogether, and a fresh
experience of contentment and gratitude develops.
You never miss what you never had. You can miss what you
once had and have no longer. Until you properly notice what you still have. To adopt
TS Eliot’s famous lines, you never “cease from exploration / And the end of all
our exploring / Will be to arrive where we started / And know the place for the
first time.”
Our corona virus lockdown could be a journey towards a greater
appreciation of small things and what we already have, and a reduced hunger for
needless things we can well do without when it’s over.
Wednesday 1
April 2020
Back to nature
I suppose if we
had to have this plague, it’s better to have had it in spring than in the dead of
winter. The days are getting longer. The weather is improving. And nature is
beginning to burst into new life: there are unspoken signs of hope around us. My
tomato and bean seeds are sprouting for a start.
Yesterday
evening a hedgehog was scurrying around our garden, almost certainly a second
one as a larger one usually comes later to eat the snack we put out. Last week
we saw a brimstone and a peacock butterfly, several bumblebees and hoverflies.
Blue tits, goldfinches, blackbirds, a wren – plus the inevitable pigeons (wood
and feral) and magpies. A red kite has been gliding overhead, and the
over-wintering gulls have largely departed, their raucous crying replaced by
the excited twittering of sparrows in a neighbour’s hedge.
The tulips that
I left in pots from last year (despite dire warnings from the gardening books)
have come up vigorously with no more help than a dose of Miracle Gro when they
first peered above the surface. There is colour, there is birdsong. The vegetable
patch has a hard crust on it which is hard to break up, but you can’t have
everything. It’s supposed to provide good exercise.
The experts are
telling us that getting into the outdoors is important for our mental
well-being. It slows us down. Lessens anxiety. Focuses the mind. Clears the
head. Improves the mood. Injects hope. Generates peace. Puts things into
perspective. It’s something to be treasured, valued, used for our benefit. It
makes us stop, wonder, think beyond our immediate needs and ambitions.
There was a
good question in a newspaper yesterday. Now “normal” has ceased in the lockdown,
when the plague lifts will we go back to being just the same, or will the
changes we have been forced to make – including contemplating nature more
slowly – alter the way we behave permanently?
I have an
additional question. King Solomon was famed for his wisdom. Yes it was a gift,
but gifts need exercising and feeding. Solomon’s wisdom must have come in part
from careful, thoughtful, meditative observation of the world around him
because in his many proverbs “he spoke about plant life, from the cedar of
Lebanon to the hyssop that grows out of walls. He also spoke about animals and
birds, reptiles and fish” (1 Kings 4:33).
Thursday 26 March 2020
Jobs. They never end
For many
people, there’s always more to do: more paid work than we can get through in a
day or a week; more jobs to do around the house than we can tackle in a given
time.
Sorting.
Tidying. Cleaning. Washing. Cooking. Shopping. Creating. Making. Writing. Reading.
Repairing. Digging. Weeding. Planting. Decorating. Contacting. Researching.
Organising. Exercising. Most of which we would prefer to leave to another time.
So they pile up. A never-decreasing pending tray. An ever-increasing list of needs. And days of solitary confinement give ample opportunities for doing them. Don't they?
There’s a
peculiar form of paralysis that sets in when you make a list like that. Where
to start? How to prioritise? And most of all: which do I fancy doing just now? The debilitating frustration comes from a
conflict between choosing what I most enjoy doing and doing what I don’t like
but have to get done sometime. Hopefully,
not now.
It’s rare that
I start a day without having anything to do (the list sees to that). It’s also
rare that I finish a day without being able to look back and say “I did
something useful”. When I retired I made a sort of vow that I would never let a
day pass without having achieved something of value – even if it’s “only” reading
a couple of informative or entertaining chapters of a book. Most of the handful
of days when I haven’t achieved something have been when I’ve had to battle
with technology or call centres. (My wife has just spent eight hours, in two
sessions, trying to get grocery deliveries ordered online. She failed; there
are no delivery slots.)
Routine and
planning then become important (I began musing on routine last time; see previous
entry below). I have a daily “must do today” list and a weekly “must do this
week” list to be fitted into whatever day is most appropriate. Further, I tend
to split the day into a regular but not inflexible pattern: the more creative
and admin stuff first, then later morning and into the afternoon the more
practical tasks. (Weekends are different – see below).
And all that,
of course, comes within the category of “work”. Work is merely doing stuff. It’s
contributing to the sum total of human activity that makes the world go round. That
much-maligned “housework” is no less work than driving an ambulance, teaching a
class, working in an office or building a rocket component. Hobbies are “work” –
unpaid, absorbing, of course, but the enjoyment or fulfilment that comes from
them is probably what work was always intended to provide.
Which is
probably why St Paul consistently writes “whatever
you do”, do it whole heartedly, as if serving God (for example, 1
Corinthians 10:31; Ephesians 6:7-8; Colossians 4:23-24). In his day, leisure
pursuits barely existed apart from statutory religious feasts or events and
regular shared meals in the evenings with story-telling and music. But it gives
us a prod: nothing is wasted. Nothing is “irrelevant”. Everything is
worthwhile. Where’s that list?
Sunday evening, 22 March 2020
A break with routine
Routine
matters. It gives a structure to life. It’s why we have seasons, celebrations,
patterns of work, weekends, bank holidays, and the church year. The ancient
Jews had some sort of feast or fast almost every month. Jesus went to the
synagogue habitually every Sabbath (Luke 4:16).
So, for us,
Saturday is drive to town, drop into church for coffee and Thought for the Day,
and visit one or more shops. Sunday is, for me, a tech free day: computer off,
emails not checked. If something is urgent, people can always phone up. Usually
its church in the morning, watch a recording of Saturday’s Match of the Day over lunch, then read, garden fit a few bits to a
jigsaw, maybe watch Songs of Praise
in the afternoon before dinner, watching Countryfile
and whatever we fancy on TV later. Simples.
Not any more. Yesterday
was like any other day at home. Immediately one is aware of the risk of the
days merging into each other in a blur. One of my eccentricities has always
been that I never know the date; in every job I’ve had (and now in retirement)
I have always had a wall chart or calendar above my desk. I know the date by
looking at the moveable marker or the last day that’s crossed off. And if I
forget to move the marker, or cross the day off, then confusion reigns.
As for today: I
went to church (virtually) three times. That’s almost unheard of. There was the
BBC TV Morning Worship, extremely
well done with three (pre-recorded) hymns, two readings and short talks, and
some prayers. There was Songs of Praise
as usual. And then a local church virtual service via Zoom with shots of many
familiar faces of those taking part around the town.
The down side
was having to spend much of the morning setting up Zoom and also Skype (for
family purposes), which I still haven’t a clue how to use. Sabbath no-tech rule
broken by necessity. Tech is annoying at the best of times; doubly so when I
could have been closer to God’s heart in the garden on a sunny day, as the
highly dubious saying has it. The upside was having a take-away roast dinner
from the local pub organised by our son not least to help the local business
which has provided him with a supportive community.
So there’s the
challenge for the foreseeable future: discover a fresh routine. Six days work
(whatever that involves), one day of rest and spirituality. I’ve heard about that
pattern somewhere before, come to think of it.
Thursday evening, 19 March 2020
Freedom is curtailed
It’s hitting me
now, this government requested (soon to be imposed?) house arrest. Because that
is what it is, whether it’s called self-isolation, social distancing, or – in real
prison-speak – lockdown.
We’ve done the
last big shop. Never before in the history of our family have we ever gone to
Sainsbury’s at 7.45 in the morning. It was heaving. The checkout queues snaked
around the store. So much for keeping two metres apart; 30 cm was about the
norm. Now, we’re confined to the house. At least we have a garden.
It’s not the
lack of social gathering that I shall miss. In different circumstances the idea
of my being a hermit (or “solitary” as they call them these days) would not have
been entirely unpalatable. It’s the constraints on freedom that weigh heavily.
We’re so used
to doing what we want, when we want. Going to meetings (or not going).
Preparing for them (or not bothering). Browsing shops including charity and
book shops, and the public library where I could happily spend hours. In
retirement, life is a series of voluntary options. Today, those options have
been curtailed by order of the government.
As it is, of
course, in totalitarian states. As it is for persecuted minorities. And for
prisoners (of crime or conscience). And for people who have never had the
luxury of choice, for whom every day is a battle for survival on meagre
resources. Maybe it’s what exile is like; refugees fleeing one peril only to be
trapped in a place not of their choosing.
But what is
this freedom that we take for granted and now are losing? “Freedom and slavery
are mental states” Ghandi once said. You can be a slave to all kinds of things –
not least ones selfish ambitions – in a country of freedom; you can be free to
imagine, to dream, to respond with love, to exhibit concern, to do good, even
to worship and pray, in a confined cell. It’s an attitude, not a circumstance.
And true freedom
is never selfish. Nelson Mandela concluded his account Long walk to Freedom with these words: “To be free is not merely to
cast off one’s chains, but to live in a way that respects and enhances the
freedom of others.” The panic buying of recent days is not an exhibition of
freedom but of slavery to fear.
Maybe that’s
what Jesus partly meant when he said “the truth will set you free” (John 8:31).
The truth is, as the Prime Minister is fond of saying, “we’re all in this
together”. We always have been, but we tend to forget our indelible
inter-connectedness. The first step to freedom is recognising the fact. The
second is to act on it. And the third is to accept that there are always
constraints: we can never do or be everything we would like.
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