Year Of The Golden Hare

No, I'm not having a blond moment. But I am certainly wondering if this will be my Year of the Silver Hair. Little arthritic bits, a flowering of the hoar upon the head, stiffness on waking, the onset of presbyopia. Not that I haven't wondered about it before, of course.

It feels like a good year waiting to happen. I wonder how long we have to wait.

Three (Again!)

Recently, I've been meditating on the idea of threeness. The point about three is that it is the minimum number of points that will define a plane; it is the minimum number of points that when connected by straight lines on a plane will give a shape. Two is good, but three is difficult to break.

And so it comes to pass that I think of threeness. I think of faith, hope and love, and how Paul (that arch-crafter of philosophical epistles) manages to squeeze them into the first epistle to the church at Thessalonica: "Remembering without ceasing your work of faith, and labour of love, and patience of hope..."

Some of this will seem boringly familiar to some of you. Indeed, I've mused about these three virtues before, and even with a reversed perspective of sorts here.

But some of you might be appalled or made uneasy or amused by the fact that some nights, as I sit and sip my Bordeaux (of whatever vintage, some better than others), I think of all the people I've taught and who have taught me. I think of my first teachers — my parents and grandparents, and my last students (and I think, O God, please may I continue to have more).

And as I think of all of these people, I remember what Paul (and his fellow workers Silvanus and Timothy) remembered without ceasing: the work of faith, and labour of love, and patience of hope that others have shown in exemplary manner. And the night gives way to dawn.

Anchorage

Today my father's sister's husband died. To me he was a shepherd, one of few, always a rock and a pillar around which I clung as a child when in need of consolation. For he always attempted to be cheerful, and yet he was always firm about what ought to be, and what ought not to be; to a child, these are powerful things. He too was a teacher, in many ways and to many people.

I am persuaded that he — like a great ship of war in times of war, a great ship of trade in times of peace — has come to anchor at last in a safe and secure harbour. It was a harbour he had always sought, like a pilot seeks the light of port, whether in tower or lighthouse or burning beacon of flame. In the epistle to the Hebrews it is said, "Wherein God, willing more abundantly to show unto the heirs of promise the immutability of his counsel, confirmed it by an oath; that by two immutable things, in which it was impossible for God to lie, we might have a strong consolation, who have fled for refuge to lay hold upon the hope set before us: which hope we have as an anchor of the soul, both sure and steadfast — and which (the soul) enters into that (hope) within the veil."

I think of bagpipes and comfort, I think of the shepherd who enters into the shepherd's rest, I think of how good it was to see him last, and as a Christian, how good it will be to see him again. Goodbye uncle, not only adieu, but au revoir. For that is the hope in which we live.

The first hymn I thought of is the one I shall reproduce below, in memory of my uncle's life:

Will your anchor hold in the storms of life,
When the clouds unfold their wings of strife?
When the strong tides lift and the cables strain,
Will your anchor drift, or firm remain?

Refrain:
    We have an anchor that keeps the soul
    Steadfast and sure while the billows roll,
    Fastened to the Rock which cannot move,
    Grounded firm and deep in the Saviour’s love.

It is safely moored, ’twill the storm withstand,
For ’tis well secured by the Saviour’s hand;
And the cables, passed from His heart to mine,
Can defy that blast, thro’ strength divine.

Refrain

It will surely hold in the Straits of Fear—
When the breakers have told that the reef is near;
Though the tempest rave and the wild winds blow,
Not an angry wave shall our bark o’erflow.

Refrain

It will firmly hold in the Floods of Death—
When the waters cold chill our latest breath,
On the rising tide it can never fail,
While our hopes abide within the Veil.

Refrain

When our eyes behold through the gath’ring night
The city of gold, our harbour bright,
We shall anchor fast by the heav’nly shore,
With the storms all past forevermore.

Refrain

(Words by P J Owens, 1882)

Adventure

The sense of the word 'adventure' has changed over the years. Originally meaning 'the prospect of something about to happen', it became 'the chance of something happening', and then 'hazarding or risking the future'. It slowly mutated into 'a perilous undertaking' (around 1314!) and then 'a novel or exciting incident' (around 1570!) before becoming what it is today, a literary genre, a detour that brings entertainment to our boring lives.

It's the same thing with the word 'emergency'. Originally meaning 'something rising (from a liquid medium)' and related to 'submerge' (to place below the surface of a liquid) and 'merge' (to blend into a liquid), it became 'something happening in a fluid situation' ('emergent' appears around 1450) and then 'an unforeseen occurrence'. Now it connotes disaster and danger, having blended in our minds with 'urgency'.

But looking forward and backward, as a social historian is wont to do, one sees things sometimes a little differently. Whether or not you believe in the theological claims of Jesus Christ, something emerged about 2000 years ago. Its advent was apparently prophesied, and at the very least it was keenly anticipated. Out of Bethlehem, that phenomenon would come to change the world.

Such change phenomena always have their detractors. But the change they inspire is incontrovertible. The reason that many have come to suspect others of thinking that President-elect Obama is like a messiah is a simple one. He has campaigned on a message of 'change that you can believe in' and 'the audacity of hope'. It is a timeless message, and one that appeals to all kinds of humans. Not all who believe are uncritical, swept up by the audacity of hopeful change. Many see the possibilities of the adventure, and are glad that it has come in their time.

Me, I'm just looking forward to seeing people this December who I've not seen for a while. I wonder what it's like for those who are not coming home, and those who are coming home after their first extended period of being away from home. I wonder about those who have no homes to return too. I wonder as I wander.

Psalm 130: A Fearsome Forgiveness

The nature of forgiveness is often taken for granted. But forgiveness can be a fearsome thing, and that's the oft-neglected point of the 130th Psalm.

Out of the depths have I cried unto thee, O LORD.
Lord, hear my voice: let thine ears be attentive to the voice of my supplications.
If thou, LORD, shouldest mark iniquities, O Lord, who shall stand?
But there is forgiveness with thee, that thou mayest be feared.
I wait for the LORD, my soul doth wait, and in his word do I hope.
My soul waiteth for the Lord more than they that watch for the morning: I say, more than they that watch for the morning.
Let Israel hope in the LORD: for with the LORD there is mercy, and with him is plenteous redemption.
And he shall redeem Israel from all his iniquities.

The key is in the fourth verse, which can be translated as, "But there is forgiveness with you, and therefore you are feared." How odd, you might think; how do we parse this line?

The thing is that the power to forgive is like the defence of vulnerability. It is a potent engine of change. There is no opposing it, since it isn't an aggressive weapon. Over time, I've learnt a lot about powerful things that aren't weapons, and they're all good – and they are all fearsome as well. Nevertheless, the yearning in this psalm is palpable; the hope overrides the fear, the promise of redemption may yet be granted, the morning is on its way.

Psalm 125: The Audacity Of Faith

Anyone interested in Senator Barack Obama's campaign for the White House in 2008 would probably have read his book, The Audacity of Hope. In it, the Senator speaks about what it means to live in a pluralistic democracy and having to cope with perilous issues such as religious orthodoxy and political expediency. He concludes that in many areas, Americans have no choice but to admit a freer and broader discourse at a personal level – and then elevate this discourse to a higher level without rancour.

This is always going to be hard for some people to take. As I was reading Psalm 125 yesterday, I could see only too easily how an abiding faith might possibly turn into the stubbornness of faith, rather than the audacity of hope.

They that trust in the LORD shall be as mount Zion, which cannot be removed, but abideth for ever.
As the mountains are round about Jerusalem, so the LORD is round about his people from henceforth even for ever.
For the rod of the wicked shall not rest upon the lot of the righteous; lest the righteous put forth their hands unto iniquity.
Do good, O LORD, unto those that be good, and to them that are upright in their hearts.
As for such as turn aside unto their crooked ways, the LORD shall lead them forth with the workers of iniquity: but peace shall be upon Israel.

To me, it has always been of near-paramount interest and wonder that the name 'Israel' means 'he who wrestles (or contends) with God'. To have a nation rooted in an abiding faith that one has been granted the right, as Jacob was, to contend with the Almighty, is to have a unique status indeed. It is a status that needs the countervailing weight of even more graciousness and humility than usual.

Candles

Heh. Some time ago, we bought a lovely Quentin Blake birthday card for our elder niece. She's a sharp one, she is; I remember several occasions on which she managed to outwit her father and her uncles, who are not exactly brainless.

You can imagine my horror in the wee hours of the morning, as I was writing in that card, when I discovered that the birthday cake portrayed in the card (three times!) had only five candles. And she will be seven this year.

Hrrrm. With that finely-tuned aesthetic creativity that comes free with a boat-load of desperation, this uncle sketched in an extra two perfectly good and difficult-to-detect little candles on each instance of that cake. I figure it is a win-win proposition. If the niece fails to detect the ringers, so far, so good. If she does, she should appreciate that Uncle Autolycus actually bothered to draw such excellent candles. I hope.

The theme for this month, I suspect, will be 'The Audacity of Hope'.

The Politics Of Hope

It's been a long time since I last wrote much about US politics. In that time, I've seen the incumbent president preside over terrible things in the name of hope. He has not been the success that many hoped for; he has had the worst ratings of any sitting Commander-In-Chief in history. It is a waste. He has not done a completely bad job, but most of it has been a stench in the nostrils of the American people.

And in the last year or so, I've come to support Senator Barack Obama. The points against him are manifold – people say he is too smart, too devious, too inexperienced, too angry, too mixed-up (in many ways). The points for him are that he learns fast, that he is disciplined, intelligent and willing to learn from everyone who contributes positively. Most of all, he advocates hope and a more inclusive position on political affairs. As an educator, used to dealing with young people of all kinds, I believe that the points against him are not damaging. The points in his favour tilt the balance to the positive.

You see, if Senator Obama triumphs, he will have done it by being a good student and a good teacher. He will have done it by educating and being educated. He will have transcended the difficulties of his past, dealt with the angry seniors (Rev Wright, President and Mrs Clinton, Senator McCain) and worked with the rest for the future that is to come. Of course, only time will tell whether the audacity of hope will win out in the end.

Some critics complain that Senator Obama says too much about the intangibles. To me, this is the good part; that he has said anything about the intangibles puts him head and shoulders above many of his peers. Why? Because he also has detailed and interesting policy statements on many issues. These statements show that he has given many issues deep thought while looking forward positively. And if we do not look towards a better age, how will we live in faith that the best is yet to be?

Cinnamon

I woke up this morning thinking of cinnamon rolls. Cinnamon has a long and illustrious history as a spice of choice, but this was not what entered my mind at all. Rather, it was the fragrance of a hot sweet cinnamon roll (with plump raisins and sugary bits) that wafted across the face of my mind and escaped.

I spent the rest of the day feeling a little disgruntled. Maybe tomorrow I will get to taste what I could only dream of the night before. Then again, this is what I tell myself every day at work.

All My Hope

This morning I was seized by a sense of great joy. I am a naturally joyful person, but this was different. I felt a sudden urge to dispense with analogies and metaphors and just bow to the ineffable. In my heart I knew this: "For we see as through a glass darkly, but then we shall see face to face."

I knew this as well: We are no mere instruments of a master musician or craftsman, we were made by the Master to contribute of our own free will, to rise to the highest excellence that our nature allows. And the hope that we can achieve this is one of the great hopes of our hearts.

It was the fact that this hope existed which raised my 'joy level'. Halfway through a fairly eventful life, my game might still be raised. I might have wasted some potential somewhere, but I might still be able to turn in a few mighty performances for the One who holds me in the palm of His hand. And then suddenly, I felt like a harmonica. It was very odd, very amusing. I only know two people who treat the harmonica as a primary instrument (apart from Billy Joel, and I don't know him personally).

Here is a hymn that has been one of my favorites for thirty years or so.

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All My Hope On God Is Founded

All my hope on God is founded;
He doth still my trust renew:
  me through change and chance He guideth,
  only good and only true.
God unknown,
  He alone
  calls my heart to be His own.

Pride of man and earthly glory,
Sword and crown betray his trust:
  what with care and toil he buildeth,
  tower and temple fall to dust.
But God's power,
  hour by hour,
  is my temple and my tower.

God's great goodness aye endureth;
Deep His wisdom, passing thought:
  splendour, light and life attend Him,
  beauty springeth out of naught.
Evermore
  from his store
  newborn worlds rise and adore.

Daily doth the almighty Giver
  bounteous gifts on us bestow;
His desire our soul delighteth,
  pleasure leads us where we go.
Love doth stand
  at his hand;
  joy doth wait on his command.

Still from man to God eternal
  sacrifice of praise be done;
High above all praises praising
  for the gift of Christ, His Son.
Christ doth call
  one and all:
  ye who follow shall not fall.

Robert Bridges (1844-1930); based on the German by Joachim Neander (1650-1680)

Despair?

Despair is the emptiest of feasts. It is one which most of us have tasted; some of us have tried every dish on its malignant buffet. Some of its offerings include despondency, gloom and depression in all their various flavours. The word itself is, like 'desperation', descriptive of hopelessness and bears that meaning.

Twenty-five years ago, I cut a deal with despair. The documentation of that deal was based on the terrifying and logical contract first conceived in poetic form by that greatest of poetical Jesuits, Gerard Manley Hopkins. His 1918 poem, 'Carrion Comfort' is reproduced below. It is my fond hope that my friends who grapple with that Giant, Despair, will take comfort of a true kind from the reading of this poem.

Not, I’ll not, carrion comfort, Despair, not feast on thee;
Not untwist—slack they may be—these last strands of man
In me ór, most weary, cry I can no more. I can;
Can something, hope, wish day come, not choose not to be.
But ah, but O thou terrible, why wouldst thou rude on me
Thy wring-world right foot rock? lay a lionlimb against me? scan
With darksome devouring eyes my bruisèd bones? and fan,
O in turns of tempest, me heaped there; me frantic to avoid thee and flee?
Why? That my chaff might fly; my grain lie, sheer and clear.
Nay in all that toil, that coil, since (seems) I kissed the rod,
Hand rather, my heart lo! lapped strength, stole joy, would laugh, chéer.
Cheer whom though? the hero whose heaven-handling flung me, fóot tród
Me? or me that fought him? O which one? is it each one? That night, that year
Of now done darkness I wretch lay wrestling with (my God!) my God.

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Dum spiro, spero, say the old texts. While there's life, there's hope is the equivalent in English. Always. For Hope was the last of the things to fly out of Pandora's Box. Some say it was the most final of evils, but I prefer not to embrace such pessimism.

Faith, Hope, Love & Anchors

I've always had this uneasy relationship with I Corinthians 13:13. It is of course that famous verse which says, "And now these three remain (or abide): faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love."

Why 'uneasy'? What could be more beautiful than a line like this; what cause for uneasiness could there possibly be?

I guess that over the years, like many of the people of my generation, I developed a tolerant dislike of ranking. And yet here, in this verse buried in the words of Paul the apostle of Christ, is an obvious example of ranking. And ranking of virtues, no less! How could one possibly rank virtues? By what criteria? And to what end? I have not yet entered the familiar physical realm of uncertainties, errors, precision and accuracy. Indeed, we are still in the metaphysical realm.

Of course, the argument for 'the most excellent way' has just been made, in the verses preceding this. By this point, the reader has been invited to consider the consequences of doing things without love. But a cursory inspection of chapters 12 and 13 shows little to do with the consequences of doing things without faith or hope - thus leading one to consider the possibility of some sort of 'straw man' argument.

But the whole book of Romans deals with the issue of faith and faithlessness; faith is the beginning of the argument, the root of our belief in eternal things. And the consequence of faithlessness is ignorance, as Paul colourfully describes from chapter 1 of that epistle onwards; it manifests in eagerness to exchange the certain knowledge and glory of God for odd and inferior things. Indeed, Paul leaves no space for even philosophical doubt - rather, to him faithlessness is inexcusable. Belief in God is not a kind of knowledge gained by reason, but a self-evident reality that needs none. It is all very frustrating to the scientist, and meaningless folly to the likes of Bertrand Russell.

And worse to the logical positivists, faith is 'the surety of things hoped for; the certainty of things unseen'. It is all a vexation of spirit to the philosophers of the age.

What then of hope? Does the Bible ascribe greater horrors to hopelessness than to faithlessness? Oh yes, without hope we are the most pitiful of men, says Paul. Whether Paul wrote the epistle to the Hebrews or not is debateable, but that epistle shows hope as the anchor of the soul, without which we would surely drift and be lost in despair.

More scholarly people than I have searched and researched for the ultimate verity behind faith and hope. But I think that the reason why love surpasses them both (although all three abide) is that love is the one virtue that must continue to act. It cannot exist without acting. Faith will not listen to reason, and is shown as implicit in the things one does; hope is an enduring state of mind which seems optimistic and complicit with faith. Love, completely differently, requires that one does something for someone else, and is shown by its absence in the greatest deeds that one might otherwise do.

Perhaps, considering the metaphor of hope as an anchor that keeps the soul steady, faith must be the idea that something at the bottom of it all holds the anchor steady; love, however, must be shown in the things one does as if assuming the anchor will hold. Love is the capacity to take people on board, to give them one's full service and to do your best by them - without listening to the million niggling prejudices one inevitably has. Love is something we sometimes find greatest in paradox as well as in power - love defeats all things and yet is vulnerable to all; love is perfect in weakness and inflicts vulnerability upon the heart - but it gives invulnerability to the soul.

In the end, faith, hope and love; these three things abide. But the greatest of these is love.

Faith

I think there has been too much nonsense written about faith, evidence, truth and knowledge. Perhaps the first thing about faith is that it is certainty which eludes reason. If there is a deductive process leading to B from A, then B is not a matter of faith (excepting the matter of belief in A, which might very well be a matter of faith). If there is evidence leading one to conclude that C is a likely scenario accounting for all the evidence, then this is a matter of reason as well. Only if there is a complete absence of conclusive evidence, all evidence being the sort that is supportive rather than directive (i.e. the evidence is consistent with the scenario, but does not necessitate it), can there be space for faith.

True faith is a stark, cold position. It is a redoubt set in a ring of high stone walls against a black and starless sky. Faith does not lend itself to questioning, and faith may entertain reason but is not susceptible to it. Faith has often been called an emotion, but it isn't even that - emotion has physiological effects and antecedents, but faith is too subtle for those. Faith is not a matter of the crude sensory perception of the body, or even the finer differential perception that the body derives from those senses.

Faith is thus not reliable in the evidential sense or the deductive sense; it is not reliable in terms of instinct, emotion or perception - if it were, it would be undermined by anything which could defeat these guardians of the mind. Why should faith be of any use to us then?

Faith is of use when no evidence or reasoning, no perception or emotion, can give us an answer. In a darkness where all human powers are cloaked and baffled, it is the one thing that might give us a chance of sight at all. For faith, as the Good Book says, is the assured certainty of things that are hoped for, and the substantive reality of things which are not perceived. It is justified true belief (as some have said about knowledge) which contains its own justification, certifies its own truth, and leads to raw and unembellished belief.

And it does not sit well with everyone, for there will always (of necessity as well as nature) be those who must see as through a glass darkly. It does not always sit well with me; it has a terrible bedside manner and an uncompromising personality. But I have learnt that it is the only thing, besides hope and love, that can be relied upon in dark times.

The Greater Trumps: (24) The Star

The Tower is lost, its rubble far away. But while the landscape is at first sight bleak and sparsely populated, there is a young lady filling and emptying her chalices at a pool beneath the starlight. And what a star it is! Serene and beautiful, it lights up the bleak landscape, softening its features instead of highlighting its contrasts. It seems to say that no matter how despairing the mood of the land, there is yet hope and beauty.

The symbol of the Star is almost always Hope, whether the little extra that helps or the great hope which brings one through the time of disaster. Although sometimes, rarely, the Star brings an air of uncertainty as people look into the murky future in the faint light, there is really nothing to fear. People being people however, they will fear the unknown. But that isn't the concern of the Star.

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The classic hymn by Phillips Brooks, O Little Town Of Bethlehem, written in memory of his horseback ride from Jerusalem to Bethlehem in 1865, best conveys the sense of hope and the slightly unsettled emotions of those exposed to its strength. The first stanza says:

O little town of Bethlehem, how still we see thee lie!
Above thy deep and dreamless sleep the silent stars go by.
Yet in thy dark streets shineth the everlasting Light;
The hopes and fears of all the years are met in thee tonight.

It never fails to send a thrill down my spine to hear these words sung in the cool echoing dimness of a night-time service.