Lest we forget - 'Cultural Amnesia' and the future of our culture

I am just in the process of reading a book I would rank alongside Jacques Barzun’s From Dawn to Decadence for its breadth of scope and value to the reader. At the same time, it is wonderfully well written. Yet it ought also to carry something of a health warning for the average person, who will probably feel, as I do on almost every page, humiliated by their own comparative lack of knowledge.

The book to which I am referring is Clive James’s Cultural Amnesia: Notes in the Margin of my Time. Basically a collection of short essays, James has taken a character, usually (though not exclusively) from the twentieth century whom he feels has made a significant contribution to our culture, and more or less written about them.

Sometimes there is a great deal ‘less’ than ‘more’. The book is not ‘an introduction to’ whomever, but rather almost a ‘stream of consciousness’ reaction to or reminiscence about them which sometimes veers off in unpredictable, but fascinating, directions. The discussion of Richard Burton’s haircut in Where Eagles Dare is a particularly good example, occurring as it does in the essay on the Viennese physician and writer, Arthur Schnitzler.

At times I have found myself simply embarrassed by my ignorance. Last night I began reading about Einstein, but couldn’t match the picture of the balding ‘bank managerial’ figure at the beginning with the usual ‘mad hair’ image one associates with the name. Then I realized it was actually Alfred, his cousin and music critic, not Albert the scientist, about whom I was reading.

There followed a wonderful piece (mostly about Schubert as it happens), but all the way through I couldn’t help thinking, “How have I lived so long and not known there was an Alfred Einstein?”

Many of us will know James as a TV pundit and, perhaps, writer — not least of the autobiographical Unreliable Memoirs. Those who do will be aware that he can be very funny indeed — something like a cross between Jeremy Clarkson and Ian Hislop, though the sardonic Australian style sometimes calls for small doses.

There is a laugh-out-loud line, for example, in Unreliable Memoirs about the visiting ‘dunny man’ — like dustmen, only for the outside toilets typical of pre-war Australian homes — who tripped over the boy James’s bicycle left lying in the alleyway, thus spilling the contents of the said dunny. “The amazing thing,” wrote James (as I recall), “Was how almost none of it missed him.”

The same wit carries over into Cultural Amnesia. James can be eloquently amusing at astonishing length in the way that Rowan Williams is astonishingly lengthy but baffling.

Yet there is much more here than amusement. There is an intensity about the writing, shot through, I felt, with that melancholy which comes with age — the realization that not only must ‘all this’ pass but so, too, must one’s own accumulated awareness. The ‘amnesia’ of the title is, I think, not that we forget so much we have read or experienced, but that entire cultures forget because the only repository of ‘remembering’ is our own fragile and finite selves.

There is also a constant reminder of the dreadfulness of the last century. So many of James’s subjects were victims of — but sometimes participants in — Nazi or Soviet persecution: Einstein (of course), but also virtually every other Jewish or Russian character (and there are many) in the entire book, plus several others:

The whole of modern Polish literature ... might have had an utterly different layout if some Nazi thug ... had not put a bullet through the head of Bruno Schulz ... (187)

The overall impression is of a century which, perhaps more than any in human history, sought to create its own ‘cultural amnesia’ by the deliberate and systematic elimination of the bearers of that culture. Hitler and Stalin between them have far and away the most references in the index, simply because they ruined or terminated the lives of so many of the others in the book. Close third is Jean-Paul Sartre who, as James writes, “looms in the corner of this book like a genius with the evil eye”:

For the book’s author, Sartre is a devil’s advocate to be despised more than the devil, because the advocate was smarter. (669)

You get the idea. Perhaps most painful of all is the essay on Sophie Scholl (1921-1943), about whom, James writes, “there are few facts to record, because she did not live long.” The reason for this is that in 1942 she joined, with her brother Hans, the White Rose resistance group, and was (along with him and their fellow ‘conspirators’) subsequently guillotined by the Nazis:

The chief executioner later testified that he had never seen anyone die so bravely as Sophie Scholl. Not a whimper of fear, not a sigh of regret for the beautiful life she might have led. She just glanced up at the steel, put her head down, and she was gone. Is that you? No, and it isn’t me either. (709)

Don’t worry. It isn’t all gloom, but there is, by my reckoning, a sense of frustration — that this book on ‘amnesia’ is James’s way of saying to the rest of us, “Remember! Remember!” That, and perhaps, “Take and read!”

And this is where the book sits so well, and so tellingly, alongside Barzun’s even more monumental work (this is not a small book!).

At the end of From Dawn to Decadence, Barzun imagines a Western world which somehow rediscovers a culture. Yet there seems to be no actual prospect of this happening. The terrible awareness that grows whilst reading Cultural Amnesia is that virtually everyone in it is dead: Miles Davis, Frederico Fellini, Franz Kafka, Marcell Proust and so on. There are perhaps three dozen essays, but the index contains hundreds of names, mostly from the past.

The world today is vastly less threatening to the typical Westerner than it was for most of the twentieth century. Even the threat of terrorism must be balanced against the equal unpredictable, but vastly more probable, ravages of diseases which, a mere century ago, could carry one off in an afternoon.

Yet what has happened to the culture? There is a great section in James’s essay on Duke Ellington which, to my mind, sums it all up:

The aesthetic component was standard for all the arts in the twentieth century: one after another they tried to move beyond mere enjoyment as a criterion, a move which put a premium on technique, turned technique into subject matter, and eventually made professional expertise a requirement not just for participation but even for appreciation. (In architecture, the turning point came with Le Corbusier: laymen who questioned his plans for rebuilding Paris by destroying it were told by other architects that they were incompetent to assess his genius.) (192)

‘Culture’ today is for the experts. ‘Mass culture’ is ever more empty of either meaning or ambition. Meanwhile, our universities have become ‘degree factories’ whose controlling ethos is increasingly their observable contribution to the economy.

Who is creating a cultural ‘stir’ today? Or who is providing any inspiration about the present or the future either in the arts or society?

By the time this century is over — and it is already well under way — we may wonder what the equivalent of Cultural Amnesia will have to say.

John Richardson
30 April 2011

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Book Now For the Oak Hill Annual School of Theology

Oak Hill Annual School of Theology

With former Principal Dr David Peterson
Wednesday 18 May 2011
10am–4pm at Oak Hill College
Transformed by God:
The New Covenant Applied

 Book here

The annual School of Theology is an opportunity to take a day out to hear inspiring biblical teaching and do some theological reflection on key issues for ministry. This year, David Peterson, former Principal of Oak Hill, is speaking on the theme of Transformed by God. He will be linking the Old Testament promises of God for lives that are genuinely renewed and changed, to their fulfilment in the New Testament.

The lectures take as their starting point the new covenant oracle in Jeremiah 31:31-34. In those verses, the prophet promises a definitive forgiveness of sins, a transformed heart, and a knowledge of God surpassing anything previously experienced in Israel. In various ways, the New Testament proclaims the fulfillment of these promises in the Lord Jesus Christ and offers the hope of renewal and change to all who come to him.

David will first examine the oracle in the context of Jeremiah's other messages of hope. Turning to Luke- Acts, he will then show how Israel is renewed and Gentiles come to share in the blessings promised by Jeremiah. Hebrews sees the promises fulfilled in the high-priestly work of Jesus the Messiah, making it possible for a new pattern of acceptable worship to be established.

Finally, Paul's teaching about the ministry of the New Covenant in 2 Corinthians 3 will introduce a study of the way gospel and Spirit together bring transformation to believers.

Refreshments and a buffet lunch are included as part of the day.

And if you're an Evangelical Anglican within cooee of London, you jolly well ought to be there. (That was me, not Oak Hill.) 

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Vice is nice ...

... used to be the first line of a ‘joke’ saying around in the ‘60s, which finished “but ’cest (as in incest) is best”. It wasn’t very funny then, but it may well have been prescient.

In this week’s edition of the Church of England Newspaper, there is an article about an ‘offending poster’ displayed outside the West Yorkshire Playhouse in Leeds advertising the opening of John Ford’s 17th century play ‘Tis Pity She’s a Whore next month.

The poster (shown above courtesy of Cranmer’s blog where he has already posted on this subject) shows, oddly enough, not an incestuous brother and sister as in the play, but a ‘pieta’ of the Virgin Mary and Jesus.

The link may seem obscure, but according to Ian Brown, the artistic director of the Playhouse, “The religious faith of the characters is integral and we felt it was important this was reflected in the image to promote the production.”

‘Tis pity, some might be thinking at this point, the main characters were not Muslims. What fun might have been had devising a suitable poster along the same lines. Since no offence was intended (according to the Playhouse) no offence presumably should have been taken.

Rather smartly, however, the image has now been replaced by a banner stating, “Judge the Play, Not the poster,” thereby managing a declaration of innocence and a reverse accusation of guilt in one fell swoop. Nevertheless, little flyers and smaller ‘inoffensive’ posters are still available around the city, where doubtless they will raise nothing more than a wry smile on the faces of the public.

All this is, of course, just the usual ‘flim flammery’ from an art world which constantly uses shock to attract an audience, whilst simultaneously huffing and puffing when people finally act offended. (The contradiction, of course, being that if it did not offend it would not shock and the whole edifice would crumble.)

Indeed, one could argue that the poster has achieved its purpose — the shock has registered, the objections have been raised and so has the profile of the play. Job done!

Nevertheless, it is in the final paragraph of the CEN article that the real problem lies:

The 1633 play by John Ford is seen as being many years ahead of its time, featuring at its heart an incestuous relationship between a brother and sister.

In what sense, might we ask, was the play ‘ahead of its time’?

Clearly Ford felt he could write it when he did, and others felt they could perform it.

So what is the ‘time’ of which it was ‘ahead’?

My worry is that the ‘time’ in question is actually one where the whole notion of incest is becoming at least discussable, if not yet acceptable.

But once a secular society has accepted the notion that there is neither one ‘definitive’ sexuality, nor one definitive form of relationship within which it should be expressed, the brakes must truly be off.

“Not so long ago,” writes one of the world’s leading ethicists, “any form of sexuality not leading to the conception of children was seen as, at best, wanton lust, or worse, a perversion.”

But as the writer goes on to argue, once our taboos begin to be revealed for nothing more than that — the hangover of religious superstition and an inflated view of our own biological significance — the queue of relationships looking for social legitimacy begins to wind around the block.

John Richardson
29 April 2011

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A doorway to Narnia

Which I just built in my garden. (Click for a wider view)

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U-571, female detectives, it’s all the same

When the film U-571, depicting the American capture during World War 2 of a submarine carrying an Enigma cypher machine, hit the cinema screens, I was one of those who greeted it with derision.

Those who know a bit about the War will be aware that the first Enigma machines were actually captured by the Poles before hostilities broke out between Germany and Britain. Then, in 1941, another machine was captured from a U-boat, but by the British destroyer HMS Bulldog.

One argument for this rewriting of history went that the film would not otherwise have been economically viable in the US. According to an article on Wikipedia, the screenwriter David Ayer pretty much confessed to this later:

It was a distortion ... a mercenary decision ... to create this parallel history in order to drive the movie for an American audience.

Well, stupid him, I thought, and stupid Americans for not being able to stomach anything other than a world re-coloured to suit their own view of what ought to have been ‘reality’.

But then it turns out American producers and scriptwriters aren’t the only ones whose fictional world has to shelter their audiences from reality, for apparently BBC One controller Danny Cohen has said he plans to limit the number of male detectives in the channel’s dramas.

“Detectives and crime is the real staple of quite a lot of BBC,” he said, but added, “I felt that we risked having too many male detectives.” Hence, in particular, the series ‘Zen’, starring Rufus Sewell, apparently had to go.

Now the question that has to be asked is, “Too many for what?”

Amongst male detectives, reference was made to Sherlock, Luther, Wallander and Inspector George Gently. Personally I’m only familiar with the first and the third, but I must admit the one thing that never crossed my mind whilst watching either was, “Shame he’s a bloke.”

Nor, oddly enough, did I find myself thinking, “Given all the female crime-fighters one sees in daily life, isn’t this a bit unrealistic?”

So whence the drive to change what appears on our TV screens? Whatever it turns out to be, I’ll guarantee that tucked away in it somewhere you’ll find an ‘ought’ — “There ‘ought’ to be more fictional detectives on television who are women because ...”

Fill in the gap and you’ll learn a lot about modern society and culture.

Fiction is, of course, just that. It is not real-life, and it has always involved the projection of the hopes and aspirations of the author. Yet we must never underestimate the power of fiction to move us as if it were reality. Indeed, there have been works of fiction which have had a seminal influence on society — think Uncle Tom’s Cabin or The Grapes of Wrath.

This is why, personally, I think the Puritan suspicion of the theatre had something going for it. Our easy acceptance of the deluge of popular fiction on our televisions, particularly the ‘soaps’, may be a reflection, as much as anything else, of our blindness to its effects, rather than our robustness regarding its impact.

Indeed, there is no doubt whatsoever (and there is probably a book out there to prove) that the popular media have been used quite deliberately to reshape popular culture. What the ‘fictionalizers’ deem acceptable is thus at least as important as what their audiences find palatable.

I was inclined to pity an American audience that could only cope with ‘historic’ events which featured themselves. But it is not just Americans who demand a parallel universe for their contemplation. Our own producers and writers also insist creating worlds in their own image.

Back in the ‘70s (I’m tempted to say, when Greenbelt was evangelical) there was talk of raising up a generation of Christian artists and writers to influence society. At the time there was also a big debate about whether art should be ‘for art’s sake’ or to convey a ‘message’. I was then, and still am, a fan of the former. Nevertheless, it is clear that there are powerful figures in our modern media who have no compunction at all about operating on the basis of the latter.

Perhaps it is time we woke up to the fact.

John Richardson

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Were families happier in the past?

This is a rebuttal of Happy Families? - a document that concludes, amongst other things,

# The 'permissive'1960s were not the decisive break with long-established norms of marital stability and sexual propriety that is often thought.*
# There was a change in the late 1960s from some of the norms of the post-Second World War period, but that was the historically unusual period, with high rates of relatively long-lasting marriages.
# High rates of unmarried cohabitation of men and women bringing up children prevailed over many centuries, mainly due to the difficulty of obtaining a divorce before 1969.

Professor Rebecca Probert and Dr Samantha Callan offer a different view:

Conclusion
In expressing serious concern about the evidential basis for the claims in Happy families?, it is not our intention to suggest that all marriages in the past were happy and long-lasting, nor that there were no examples of successful and stable cohabiting relationships. But the quality of family life should be distinguished from its form: the fact that a number of marriages were brutal and fleeting should not obscure the centrality of marriage to family life in previous decades.Whilemany Victorianmarriages were short-lived because of the untimely death of one of the spouses, this does not mean that the experiences of the survivors were in any way comparable to those undergoing a divorce today. Similarly, while one can of course find examples from all historical periods of couples who lived together outside marriage, it does not follow that cohabitation was remotely as common in the past as it is today. In the preface to Happy families?, it is implied that those who make public policy are ignorant of the historical context, this report being presented as ‘bring[ing] to bear the skills of the humanities on questions of public policy.’67 It is of course vital that those working in the humanities contribute to debates on public policy by providing accurate and unbiased accounts of the past. But a failure to do this, as we have seen in Happy families?, jeopardises the integrity of the field and is likely to lead to ill-informed public policy.

Download as pdf here.

* Speaking as someone alive at the time, I can only say, "Oh yes they were."

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The ugly side of youth

There is something hauntingly nasty about this picture from the Daily Mail, which ought to be pondered on by us all.

Apparently it shows an incident at a football match between Bury and Chesterfield after Bury goalkeeper Cameron Belford let in a goal. He was then abused and attacked by a group of teenagers, as shown in a sequence of pictures.

There are several things which stand out about these images. The first, and most disturbing, is the evident pleasure on the faces of his abusers. These are not expressions of hate but of sheer enjoyment of what they are doing.

The second is the way Belford has turned away and refuses to fight back. ‘Why is this?’ we might wonder. He is obviously a grown man and doubtless capable of taking care of himself. Yet he does nothing — indeed in one of the pictures, where a tiny girl is waving four fingers (two on each hand) under his nose, his expression is one of weary patience.

An earlier generation would have counted the behaviour of these children (for that is what they are) worthy of a clip round the ear. But what would such a response evoke now?

Indeed, I cannot help feeling that both the behaviour and the expressions of these young people stems from the fact that they know they are ‘untouchable’. The goalkeeper cannot touch them and I suspect the law will not (apart from a minor punishment perhaps, easily shrugged off).

My own reaction, as you can probably tell, is a cross between despair and anger — despair that such things happen and anger that such vileness is allowed to be expressed.

Still, perhaps we should not be surprised. There is something about the sequence that reminds me of this:

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Announcing ...

An Anglican Evangelical 

Junior Clergy Conference

 Securing Anglican Evangelicals

Promoting an Evangelical Future for Anglicanism

For enquirers, ordinands, curates and new incumbents

Evening 11th - Lunch Time 13th July 2011

St Mark’s College

Audley End, Essex CB11 4JD

The aim of the Conference is to identify and encourage the next generation of Anglican Evangelical clergy leaders who will take on the strategic challenges for the Church of England of the mid twenty-first century.

The anticipated cost is £115. To book, send a cheque for £15 to to Revd John Richardson, 39 Oziers, Elsenham, Bishop’s Stortford, HERTS CM22 6LS. To inquire further, please use the e-mail link at the bottom of the left hand column. Places are limited to 38. See the St Mark’s website for details of facilities and accommodation.

Current Proposed Programme:

11th July

“How we got here. Or, why when the ball’s at their feet, Evangelicals never score the goal”

“The Renewed Pastor, Acts 20” — Bible Exposition

12th July

“BCP -- Cranmer’s Crash Course for Clergy.”

“Working the parish. The challenges and opportunities of births, marriages and deaths”

“Why are the mighty fallen? Staying Evangelical through a lifetime of challenges”

“The Benefit of Bishops? Oh yes there are.”

“The Young Pastor, 1 Tim 4:1-16” — Bible Exposition

13^th July

“Married to the Mob? Promoting change in the Church of England”

There will also be ‘Bring and Share’ groups and opportunity to talk about the issues we face, such as getting through the application process, Continuing Ministerial Development, working with one another, etc.

Contributors will include: Jonathan Fletcher, Dub Gannon, John Richardson, Pete Sanlon, Melvin Tinker

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The Transformation of Suffering

Part 1 here, Part 2 here

Jesus knew that they wanted to ask him, so he said to them, “Is this what you are asking yourselves, what I meant by saying, ‘A little while and you will not see me, and again a little while and you will see me’? Truly, truly, I say to you, you will weep and lament, but the world will rejoice. You will be sorrowful, but your sorrow will turn into joy. When a woman is giving birth, she has sorrow because her hour has come, but when she has delivered the baby, she no longer remembers the anguish, for joy that a human being has been born into the world. So also you have sorrow now, but I will see you again and your hearts will rejoice, and no one will take your joy from you.” (John 16:19-22)

For most people, what C S Lewis called The Problem of Pain is not a problem at all. Pain, in their view, is simply bad—if there is a problem, it lies only in how to avoid pain. By the same token, that which is good is, as far as they are concerned, necessarily devoid of all suffering.

It is an understandable viewpoint, and it survives right up until we come into contact with reality, for in the real world very different principles apply. It is the real world that has coined the phrase “No pain, no gain.” And this is no mere platitude. Nor is it like saying “Every cloud has a silver lining”, as if the gains simply counterbalance the pains. It is saying, rather, that some gains can only come through pains, whether we mean the pains of care, time and trouble, or literal and physical pains.

In this world, a painless existence is actually a bland existence. Indeed our world seems stubbornly designed to demand pains in many and various ways. In so many fields of endeavour, the best is generally the hardest to produce, yet there is no obvious reason why this should be so. Why shouldn’t cheap plonk taste as good as vintage wine? Why shouldn’t oak grow as fast as pine? Why shouldn’t battery hens taste better than free range—we can easily understand why they taste different, but why do they have to taste worse? The list is endless, such that nature itself seems to be saying to us, “The best does not come easily.”

But the Bible adds something about pains that we also learn from experience,

... suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character ... (Romans 5:3b-4a)

... the testing of your faith produces steadfastness. (James 1:3)

Above all, we read of Christ himself,

For it was fitting that he, for whom and by whom all things exist, in bringing many sons to glory, should make the founder of their salvation perfect through suffering. (Hebrews 2:10)

In the passage quoted earlier, Jesus himself also uses an illustration from everyday life to show that the good of his own suffering should not be beyond the understanding of his disciples,

When a woman is giving birth, she has sorrow because her hour has come, but when she has delivered the baby, she no longer remembers the anguish, for joy that a human being has been born into the world. (John 16:21)

In the real world, pain and gain are so intimately linked that the absolute avoidance of pain actually renders many gains unattainable. And this is not confined to physical matters, for just as we cannot have a fine wine or a particular skill without pains, so we cannot have a mature faith from a pain-free existence either.

This is not, of course, to suggest that suffering is something to be enjoyed in itself. There is no encouragement in the Apostolic preaching of the cross for the way of either the yogi who indulges in bizarre afflictions as the path to spiritual enlightenment, or the flagellant who seeks to make the physical pains of Christ his own on a smaller and more manageable scale. On the contrary, as the Apostle Paul observes, the believer who seeks the kingdom of God other than selflessly, by that attitude loses what is sought through the action:

If I give away all I have, and if I deliver up my body to be burned, but have not love, I gain nothing. (1 Corinthians 13:3)

Moreover, even with great gains, pain still remains pain and we may legitimately to seek to relieve it. Just as the athlete may enlist the coach and the physiotherapist, so the patient can make use of the doctor and the anaesthetist. But if there are some things which can only be gained via suffering, then the suffering through which they are gained can be welcomed—indeed can be embraced willingly, even joyfully! So the Apostle Peter tells us to “rejoice insofar as you share Christ’s sufferings, that you may also rejoice and be glad when his glory is revealed” (1 Peter 4:13).

Our problem, of course, is not that we cannot see the logic of this, but that we cannot experience the truth of it. We do not yet have the glory that the suffering precedes. And this is again the problem of time. We are promised rejoicing when Christ is revealed, but we experience suffering now. Yet the problem of time is also the problem of faith, because faith fills the gap between the seen and the unseen—between the present experience of the suffering and the unseen glory that is waiting to be revealed.

Does this mean, then, that faith is the answer to suffering? That seems the obvious answer, and yet we know it can sound trite. It would perhaps be better to say that suffering is the answer to faith.

The message of Scripture, and the practical meaning of the cross for us, is that suffering is the instrument of God’s will, not the thwarting of it. And suffering is particularly instrumental in building faith. This is why scripture does not say “suffering must be met with endurance”, but that “suffering produces endurance”—it brings it about. Suffering therefore not only tests faith, it works faith. And it does so by forcing us to confront not only our expectations of God, but our relationship with him—ultimately pushing us back not on the outcomes of faith such as assurance or patience, but on the object of faith which is God himself.

The cry of dereliction from the cross, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” is thus ultimately a cry of ‘faith seeking affirmation’. Only a true believer could feel forsaken, and only a real God could actually forsake. But in the moment, and through the event, of forsakenness, the believer is actually drawn closer to God in faith.

The cry of dereliction is, in fact, the opposite of what we see in Eden. In the garden, it is God who cries to Adam “Where are you?” (Genesis 3:8). On the cross, it is the second Adam who cries to God, “Where are you?” And yet this is not the cry of the unbeliever rejecting God but of the believer seeking him. The unbeliever, especially the satisfied unbeliever, does not want to find God or be found by him—knowing that God would disturb all that the unbeliever currently enjoys. (And even the believer who rightly enjoys all the good things that life has to offer will hardly claim that the hours of pleasure have been those in which faith has been most exercised.) So when things are going well the unbeliever hides from God, and when they go badly the unbeliever rejects him. But the believer seeks him continually, even on the cross.

There is, however, one last thing to add, which is that there is an end. The cross is followed by the resurrection, death is swallowed up in victory, this world will be followed by the age to come. And in that age, suffering as we know it now has no place whatsoever. The book of Revelation promises, “He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning nor crying nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away” (Revelation 21:4).

Then we will see what we cannot yet see, which is the outcome of all suffering. And then we will be what we cannot yet be, which is those who have come through the great tribulation, no longer experiencing our sufferings and yet being what our sufferings have made us.

Take up thy cross, and follow Christ,
nor think till death to lay it down;
for only he who bears the cross
may hope to wear the glorious crown.

Charles W Everest

From: "The Eternal Cross: Reflections on the Sufferings of Christ"

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Good Friday: The Cry of Dereliction

Part 2 (Part 1 here)

And when the sixth hour had come, there was darkness over the whole land until the ninth hour. And at the ninth hour Jesus cried with a loud voice, “Eloi, Eloi, lema sabachthani?” which means, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” And some of the bystanders hearing it said, “Behold, he is calling Elijah.” And someone ran and filled a sponge with sour wine, put it on a reed and gave it to him to drink, saying, “Wait, let us see whether Elijah will come to take him down.” And Jesus uttered a loud cry and breathed his last. And the curtain of the temple was torn in two, from top to bottom. And when the centurion, who stood facing him, saw that in this way he breathed his last, he said, “Truly this man was the Son of God!” (Mark 15:33-39)

The so-called ‘cry of dereliction’ from the cross, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me”, is well-known and has long evoked comment from believer and unbeliever alike. Why should Jesus feel forsaken? Was this a crisis of faith? Did he finally think it was all a big mistake?

Some point to the cry of dereliction as marking the end of Jesus’ ministry in failure. This was certainly the view of those in the crowd that day who jeered him. His tortured cry of “Eloi”, the Aramaic for “My God”, fell on their ears as “Elijah”, the name of the prophet who was supposed to be the forerunner of the Messiah and whom they presumed Jesus was calling on for rescue.

But the key to our understanding of the cry of dereliction is to realize that it is actually the opening line of Psalm 22, which continues in the same vein:

Why are you so far from saving me, from the words of my groaning? O my God, I cry by day, but you do not answer, and by night, but I find no rest. (Psalm 22:1b-2)

How appropriate, we might think, for one who is losing faith. And yet the voice of the Psalmist is not that of the unbeliever, but of the true believer, who is perplexed precisely because God has in the past shown himself to be the Deliverer of his people:

Yet you are holy, enthroned on the praises of Israel. In you our fathers trusted; they trusted, and you delivered them. To you they cried and were rescued; in you they trusted and were not put to shame. (Psalm 22:3-5)

And thus it is that, well before its end, the words of the Psalm turn to declarations of deliverance, praise and certainty. But it is precisely because this is the voice of the true believer that both the perplexity of the Psalmist and the cry from the cross are so important.

The human instinct is to want faith to be straightforward. The unbeliever says, “There is no deliverance, therefore there is no God.” This is what we might call the ‘theology of denial’. But there is another theology which is just as dangerous and just as wrong. This is the theology which says, “There is a God, and therefore there must be deliverance.” This has been called ‘the theology of glory’. It does not deny that God exists, but it denies that he is to be found in places like the cross, at the point of abandonment.

But both these theologies—the theology which says that because God does not deliver he cannot exist, and the theology which says that because God does exist he must deliver—are based on speculation. They are ‘armchair theologies’, just as we have so many ‘armchair generals’ in every war. They are theologies worked out not in the realm of reality but in the realm of theorising, based not on seeing what God is like, but on deciding what God should be like, and then judging life, and God, accordingly.

A truly Christian theology, however, sees God revealed in Christ. This theology is with the little party at the Last Supper, where Philip says to Jesus, “Lord, show us the Father,” and Jesus replies, “Whoever has seen me has seen the Father.”

Of course, those words are also comforting to the armchair theologian who looks at Jesus healing the sick or raising the dead. It is easy to see the Father there, if we have already decided that the Father is the one who always delivers when he is called upon. But the cross confronts that illusion by saying, “Look, here is also the Father. He who sees this Christ, the Christ on the cross, has also seen the Father.” Yet crucifixion is an unpalatable sight, from which human instinct turns away. Trying to look at this to see God is like trying to look at the sun. We must force ourselves into the confrontation.

This is why the ‘Christian message’ is so often presented as if it were chiefly about the resurrection. We can cope with Easter Day because it is easy to see God in the resurrected Jesus. The resurrection does not dazzle us! On the contrary, we will happily gaze on that sight. But the ‘armchair theologian’ is dazzled by the cross and looks away. Ironically, the ‘theologian of glory’, who is blinded by the light of the cross, regards the cross itself as the period of darkness when God is entirely absent.

Yet there is this astonishing contrast between the cross and the resurrection: the cross takes place in full view, the resurrection itself is witnessed by no-one. The disciples are lying low, the women are keeping the Sabbath, the guards run from the angel who rolls away the stone, and even the gospels themselves give us no detailed description of what happened. All the women find is an empty tomb, all the disciples see is empty grave clothes and the guards are bribed into telling a face-saving lie.

Of course his followers soon meet with the risen Christ. Mary Magdalene meets him in the garden. Two other disciples meet him on the road to Emmaus. Others meet him that same night in the upper room where they are staying. But by then it is too late—he is already resurrected! The resurrection is something God keeps to himself. And therefore if we are to see the Father, we will not see him in the act of Jesus’ resurrection.

The scandal of this is perfectly brought out by the most authentic ending to Mark’s gospel, which simply stops with the reaction of the women to the angelic messenger sitting where the body of Jesus had lain:

And they went out and fled from the tomb, for trembling and astonishment had seized them, and they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid. (Mark 16:8)

Clearly this was too much—or rather too little—for later compilers of the biblical texts, who felt compelled to add their own, albeit well-intentioned, ‘improvements’ to show that Jesus was indeed alive and well. Yet if we trust the oldest manuscripts, God’s preference is that the resurrection should be a private matter, between himself and his Son.

But the cross is entirely public, there for all the world to see. By contrast with their treatment of the resurrection, the gospels give us several pages on Jesus’ arrest, his trial, the crucifixion itself, his death and his burial. Thus the word of revelation forces us back to the crucifixion. And the reason is surely simple—it is here, at the cross, where to human perception God seems most absent, that God is actually doing his supreme work. Here, if only we will look with the eye of faith, God is most fully to be seen. The cry of dereliction, which speaks outwardly of abandonment, is in fact the moment of reconciliation between God and the world. Here, at this moment of all moments, “God was reconciling the world to himself” (2 Corinthians 5:19). As also the crucified Jesus said, “Whoever has seen me, has seen the Father.”

This, then, is the climax of what the Son has come to do. This is the outworking of what the Father wishes him to do. And so we must keep looking here to see what God is really like.

See, from His head, His hands, His feet,
Sorrow and love flow mingled down:
Did e’er such love and sorrow meet,
Or thorns compose so rich a crown?

Isaac Watts

From: "The Eternal Cross: Reflections on the Sufferings of Christ"

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Good Friday: The Unseen God

“Inscribed upon the Cross we see, in shining letters: God is love.”

This line from one of Thomas Kelly’s hymns expresses a profound truth appreciated by every Christian. But as countless generations of artists have since reminded us, it is not at all what we actually see upon the cross.

We do see the love of Christ. We hear his prayer for his executioners: “Father forgive them, for they know not what they do” (Luke 23:34). We hear his promise to the penitent thief, “Truly I say to you, today you will be with me in paradise” (Luke 23:43). We hear his care for his mother as he commends her to the home of the beloved disciple (John 19:26-27). We even hear his own trust in God as he dies, calling out, “Father, into your hands I commit my spirit” (Luke 23:46). But of the love of God it seems we hear nothing and see nothing. There are no ‘shining letters’, only a condemned man dying a brutal death.

Yet within weeks of the crucifixion, Christ was being proclaimed to the world as Saviour and the cross as the very proof of the immensity of God’s love. And to this day, it is the form of the cross which visually declares the presence and influence of Christianity.

But despite this, even Christians find it hard to keep the cross in focus, often treating it as a mere passing phase: tragedy giving way to triumph, shame giving way to glory, darkness giving way to dawn. This is understandable. We serve a living Lord, a risen Saviour, a reigning King. But when we relegate the cross to the margins, the result is as undesirable as it is unexpected. For the more we seek to find God truly in triumphs, glories and light, the less we find of the true God. And the demonstration of this is always found in our encounter with suffering.

Suffering is the contemporary world’s antidote to the Christian God, the sure proof that he cannot exist as the Creator of a world such as ours. And the Christian who has moved beyond the cross can only respond to this in vague generalities about ‘free will’ and ‘human responsibility’. “It is not God’s fault,” is what they are trying to say. And in the strict sense of God not being ‘at fault’ they are correct. But in the popular sense of it not being God’s responsibility they are wrong, for if it is not his responsibility, it is not within his control, and if it is not within his control then he is not God!

But if suffering is ultimately God’s responsibility (as the Bible clearly says and as former generations of Christians were happy to accept) then we must look to God himself for our understanding of why it occurs and how the questions it poses should be resolved, at which point the cross reasserts itself at the centre of our thinking.

These reflections, then, begin from the assumption that the cross is not simply an event in the life of Christ, nor only an act of God in history, but rather an outward expression of something which is eternally at the heart of God himself. For it is at the cross that the streams of good and evil converge. And where the outward eye sees only such suffering that God must surely have turned away, we find through faith that God is fully to be seen there as he truly is—in justice and in love, but also in power and in weakness, in wisdom and in foolishness. And it is only through the cross that there flows out to us a stream of life where death is “swallowed up in victory”—overcome, yes, but overcome by being embraced, not rejected.

In the Cross of Christ I glory:
Towering o’er the wrecks of time,
All the light of sacred story
Gathers round its head sublime.

John Bowring

From "The Eternal Cross: Reflections on the Sufferings of Christ"

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Why 'Piss Christ' was crap art

When I read that Andre Serrano’s ‘Piss Christ’ had been destroyed, allegedly by Christian protesters, I must admit to feeling a frisson of satisfaction that those who live by the sword do occasionally get their comeuppance the same way.

For decades it seems that one of the key elements of art generally, and visual art in particular, has been to shock. It is surely therefore a testimony to the success of an artwork, in these terms, to provoke its own destruction. That ‘Piss Christ’ finally achieved such an accolade arguably moves Serrano into the ‘Premier League’ of this particular genre.

Whilst reading the reactions to this event, however, I was struck by two particular things. One was those who attacked those who had destroyed the work as ‘vandals’. Surely they should have been welcomed as a necessary part of the whole artistic ‘event’. How can a work of art which sets out to make a statement be regarded as successful if no-one reacts? And how can the shocking be shocking unless people are — well, shocked?

The other was a comment about the ‘beauty’ of the work itself — the delicate light and colour of the photo of a crucifix.

At this point, however, I was reminded of a visit I made to the Tate Modern a few years ago which finally brought home to me the hollowness of much contemporary art.

I should say, incidentally, that I grew up in a home where modern art was freely available and readily embraced. My parents subscribed to The Studio magazine, and I loved to browse through the back numbers we kept in a vast cupboard halfway up the stairs.

As I traipsed around the galleries, however, I became aware of first a pattern, then a change, in what I was doing. At first I looked at the artwork, then at the label on the wall. Reading the labels told me what the work was ‘about’ — not just the title, which itself could be quite enlightening, but the thought behind the painting, sculpture or installation.

After a while, however, I found I was reading the label first, then looking at the artwork.

Finally, I realized that I actually didn’t need to look at the artwork at all — I could read the label and be just as well-informed, indeed sometimes more so. On the other hand, without the label, I would say that most of the time I entirely missed the point.

And so we come to Immersion (Piss Christ). This, we are told (by The Guardian), was part of a series of such images intended by Serrano as “a criticism of the ‘billion-dollar Christ-for-profit industry’ and a ‘condemnation of those who abuse the teachings of Christ for their own ignoble ends”.

To which I can only reply, “Oh no it isn’t.” Look at it. It is a blurry yellow picture of a crucifix.

There is no discernible hint of ‘billion-dollar industries’ or ‘ignoble ends’ in the work itself. Its all on the label.

And in fact it is the label which ‘makes’ the art ‘work’, for without the word ‘piss’ (and who can tell it is piss without the label?), you just have a blurry picture of a crucifix. The picture, in fact, is not shocking. The ‘shock’ and the ‘message’ are entirely in the label.

By contrast, and almost at random, let us consider Michelangelo’s ‘David’. Actually, given the conspicuously uncircumcised nature of the subject, the label is probably useful here as well — at least if we are supposed to think it is the biblical King David. But who cares? It is just a fantastic sculpture. You don’t want to go up to a label and peer at it in order to ‘get’ what it is about. You just want to look — that, and ask everyone else in the room to shut the hell up.

One day, as an experiment, someone should try just removing all the labels from the Tate Modern and insisting that any new works should also be presented and displayed without labels.

I wonder how the artists would react?

“So Mr Serrano, it’s a crucifix.”

“Yes, but you have to understand, it’s not just a crucifix, it’s ...”

“Thank you, Mr Serrano, but to us, it’s a picture of a crucifix. Very nice. Have you got anything else? OK, a Madonna and Child, and is that a little Satan in that picture? Tell you what, we’ll give you a ring.”

John Richardson
20 April 2011

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An interview on Radio Ulster's "Sunday Sequence", with William Crawley and Giles Goddard

Further to my piece in the Telegraph, I was interviewed by William Crawley on Radio Ulster's Sunday Sequence. You can listen to the broadcast for the next seven days here.

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Accepting homosexuality - a retrograde motion?

This is my response, published today in the Letters column of the Church of England Newspaper, to Benny Hazelhurst's own letter picking up my critique of his original article in the CEN:

Sir, Benny Hazlehurst’s argument that the Christian acceptance of gay marriage would be like the overthrow of slavery or the realization that the earth goes round the sun (Letters, April 8) might be more persuasive if the ‘arrow of history’ were going the same way in each case.

Christianity was, of course, born into a world where slavery was normal (and very unlike the ‘plantation slavery’ of 18th and 19th century religious disputes). And the arguments for the earth going round the sun were once thought to be scientifically very weak, not least from the evidence of our senses.

The Graeco-Roman world, however, regarded what we now call ‘homosexuality’ with a mixture of general acceptance and mild disdain — an attitude very much like that which has prevailed in the West in recent decades. Commenting on the Warren Cup, an artefact from somewhere near Jerusalem in AD 5-15 depicting homosexual acts and previously kept in a private collection, the British Museum website significantly observes that, “Only with changing attitudes in the 1980s was the cup exhibited to the public.”

The spread of Christianity, however, brought with it a change in the prevailing morality — not just regarding homosexuality, of course, but certainly including that. It was thus ‘traditional’ Christian morality which was the equivalent of the abolition of slavery or the recognition of heliocentrism, not the other way round.

We must therefore ask why, given the willingness to adopt a more ‘liberal’ attitude on other matters affecting the Gentiles, the New Testament lacks any hint of adaptation at this point and why the spread of the gospel brought about the social changes it did.

As to my own arguments, I think Benny confuses matters by suggesting that in order to work, the paradigm of Ephesians 5 must ‘supersede’ that of Genesis 2, when of course the former rests on the latter (compare Eph 5:31 with Gen 2:24). Certainly the biblical narrative of marriage begins in Genesis 2, but the underlying ‘mystery’, hinted at in the rest of the Old Testament, is fully revealed in Ephesians 5.

The point to grasp is that human marriage is an ‘incarnation’ of a spiritual reality — something which our Anglican tradition insists is taught in Scripture. As the BCP says, marriage is “an honourable estate, instituted of God in the time of man’s innocency, signifying unto us the mystical union that is betwixt Christ and his
Church.”

Far from being ‘genderless’, however, this mystical union undergirds the very notion of gender — including the basis on which we call God ‘he’. As CS Lewis once put it, “What is above and beyond all things is so masculine that we are all feminine in relation to it.” (That Hideous Strength). Male and female are shadows of that. The reality, however, is not less but more.

The Rev John Richardson,
Bishop’s Stortford

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Essex Art Gallery needs support

Just to get the focus off the other thing on the blog this morning.

Lindsell Art Gallery is a great little place, but looking at their website for opening times I saw the following.


NOTICE BOARD

The SPRING SHOW is well under way and it's a really good show with lots of new paintings and prints, jewellery, ceramics, glass, bronzes, silk, and some lovely local photography too.

But, like everywhere else it seems, sales are pretty dismal. We really do need more people to come and browse and to BUY – and help keep us in business.

Hayley is still very busy with picture framing, but we can't keep going on that alone.

Don't worry about the VAT increase, there is NO VAT at Lindsell Art Gallery!

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Bishops married to divorcees 'pose serious challenge to traditionalist Anglicans'

[...] For some people, therefore, the proposed consecration of Nicholas Holtam is a serious challenge to Church order. And indeed it may be — but the extent to which this is so clearly depends on the circumstances of his wife’s divorce.

This, however, took place in her teens, and it is obviously not for individuals to pry into why. Nevertheless, just as potential ordinands must face questioning in this regard, so it must be hoped that someone has delicately asked Mr and Mrs Holtam the same questions.

There would, however, be very serious problems if the answer was that Mrs Holtam’s divorce fell into neither of the categories arguably allowed by Christ or St Paul. It is one thing to disagree whether there are such exceptions. It is quite another simply to disregard this teaching entirely, for example by dissolving a marriage on the grounds of ‘breakdown’.

That such divorces occur is undoubtedly true. But the Church surely stands or falls by its faithfulness to Christ’s teaching. And it is the lack of clarity on this point which has potential for difficulties not just in Salisbury but beyond.

However, there is another, and just as pressing, reason why the nomination of Mr Holtam causes difficulty for traditionalists. Read more


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Cross Post to Benny Hazelhurst's Blog: Church, Tradition and the Bride of Christ

Benny Hazelhurst, of Accepting Evangelicals, has posted a reply to my comments on his article in the Church of England Newspaper. My own response has gone to the CEN for publication and may appear there (and here) at the end of the week. Meanwhile, you can read his reply and follow the reaction here.

He concludes,

The fact that the Church comprises both men and women and that this (according to John Richardson) is the ultimate paradigm for marriage, suggests that marriage is indeed 'genderless' - it has just taken the church a long time to realise it (like the abolition of slavery and the movement of the sun).

No-one, of course would suggest that there is a literal 'sexual' component to the marriage of Christ and his Church, but that further calls into question relying on this paradigm for our full understanding of marriage.  Indeed Paul says in Ephesians 5 that "this is a profound mystery".  It is a mystery which we are still unravelling, and perhaps we haven't quite got there yet.

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What the Exodus would have been like if Moses had had a laptop, Google and Facebook

I thought this was funny enough to repost here - though some people probably need to get out just a wee bit more.

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Revelation Unwrapped - Talk 1

To me, Revelation is one of the most exciting and immediately relevant books of the Bible. This year I've been teaching it on our Diocesan Lent Course and will be presenting it again after Easter.

Having to work with a new group made me go back and revise all my notes, which was a good exercise, but I present here the first of five talks I did at the Chelmsford Anglican Bible Conference:

Click to play or download.

If you like this, you can download the others (for a small charge) from the downloads page. The other talks are in a higher quality format and include another copy of this file.


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A soldier's baptism: Another astonishing post from the padre at the British Army blog

[...] "After a brew I made my way across the compound to chat with Adam before his baptism. As I did so aware of the austerity of the place, the heightened state of everyone’s state of mind and soul after the night before’s incident I was reminded of the words of George Macleod:

‘I simply argue that the cross be raised again at the centre of the market place as well as on the steeple of the Church. I am recovering the claim that Jesus was not crucified in a cathedral between two candles; but on a cross between two thieves; on a town garbage heap; at the crossroad of politics so cosmopolitan that they had to write His title in Hebrew and in Latin and in Greek… And at the kind of place where cynics talk smut, and thieves curse and soldiers gamble. Because that is where He died, and that is what He died about. And that is where Christ’s men ought to be and what Church people ought to be about.’

That we had no kind of font or baptistry was irrelevant. We had a big blue plastic barrel that the lads dunk themselves in after a patrol to cool down, and we had a mug cut from the container that held a mortar round. And we had Adam’s friends, those he lives alongside, and with whom he had discussed his decision, his choice, his desire to be baptised. And so as we stood next to the barrel I read the words my friend Bob had told me would be important during the tour. Words I’ve prayed with lads in CPs during the tour, words I prayed with a young man as he laid critically ill in a hospital bed and now words of promise for Adam at his baptism. Words from the book of Joshua chapter 1 that God had promised a faithful soldier thousands of years earlier ..."

Read the rest here.

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The 'seventh wine jar' in John's Gospel

The scene from John 2, where Jesus turns water into wine, is familiar to many Bible-readers, and has been trawled over many times for the inherent symbolism of every word and action.

Usually, and not inappropriately, the comment of the steward of the feast is treated as a kind of ‘punch line’: “you have saved the best til now.” And clearly there is something in the other features of the narrative — the fact that the wine came from water jars ‘of the kind used by the Jews for ceremonial washing’, for example, or even the number six.

Yet there is one feature of the account which has always struck me as slightly awkward — as not being resolved by the usual interpretations — and that is Jesus’ comment to Mary right at the outset: “Why do you involved me — my time has not yet come?”

This seems particularly awkward when we consider the very last line in the narrative secion: “He thus revealed his glory, and his disciples put their faith in him” (2:11). Was this a premature revelation? Was Jesus’ hand in some way forced? The narrative seems to suggest both a ‘yes’ and ‘no’ to these questions.

In John’s gospel, however, the notion of Jesus’ time which ‘comes’ is a running theme. In John 7:6, for example, he does not go up to the temple because his time has not come. In 7:30 his opponents cannot seize him because his time has not come. The same is true in 8:20. But then in 12:23 we read, “Jesus replied, ‘The hour has come ...’”

And from then on everything revolves around this ‘hour’ or ‘time’, as exemplified in the ‘High Priestly Prayer’: “Father, the time has come. Glorify your Son, that your Son may glorify you.”

The time that had not come at Cana, comes at last.

And so we proceed to the arrest, trial and crucifixion, where in John 19:28-30, after all is said and done, we read this:

Later, knowing that all was now completed, and so that the Scripture would be fulfilled, Jesus said, “I am thirsty.” A jar of wine vinegar was there, so they soaked a sponge in it, put the sponge on a stalk of the hyssop plant, and lifted it to Jesus’ lips. When he had received the drink, Jesus said, “It is finished.” With that, he bowed his head and gave up his spirit. (NIV)

The first striking thing about this is the way John presents it as Jesus’ last action. But it is more than just a moment of thirst and a desire for it to be slaked. We read, “so that Scripture would be fulfilled, Jesus said ...”

Jesus, and John, are making a point here. Of course, one point is that all this is the fulfilment of Scripture, and so here, as with the casting of lots earlier, there is a relevant Psalm: “They ... gave me vinegar for my thirst” (Ps 69:21), though in this case John does not quote the reference.

But is that all?

We are told throughout John’s gospel that his ‘hour’ when it ‘comes’ will reveal his ‘glory’ and ‘glorify’ the Father. And at Cana in Galilee, though the hour had not come, Jesus filled six stones jars — the kind the Jews used for cleansing rituals — with wine, revealing his glory.

Now, on the cross, the hour has come, the glory of the Son is being revealed and the Father is being glorified. And as a last action, Jesus requests and receives wine from a nearby ‘vessel’ (Gk skeuos).

Are we reading too much into this to see a link between this moment and the first revelation of his glory in Cana? Perhaps, except for something John records Jesus saying in the garden at his arrest:

Jesus commanded Peter, “Put your sword away! Shall I not drink the cup the Father has given me?” (Jn 18:11)

The answer, of course, is that he will drink the cup, which is surely meant to be understood as the cup of God’s wrath (Isa 15:16-22).

And that being the case, do we not also have an implicit lesson here in this deliberate act on Jesus’ part? Instead of the six stone jars of water for ritual cleansing, filled with ‘the best wine’ served at a wedding banquet to gladden further the hearts of already-merry guests, we have sour wine from a simple vessel, given to the one who is drinking ‘the cup the Father has given’ him.

Yet surely, here, the words of the steward at the wedding banquet finally come true: “You have saved the best wine until last.”

His hour has come. Jesus drinks from the seventh jar and,

When he had received the drink, Jesus said, “It is finished.” With that, he bowed his head and gave up his spirit. (Jn 19:30)

(Thanks are due to my Thursday Bible-study group where we discussed all this.)

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