FAULT LINES AND FAITH

I’ve been heavy this week. I mean like a saggy beanbag sighing itself into a heap.

It’s the world, mostly. It’s not exactly a hot take but clearly society is fracturing. I mean it. Things are ripping apart like tectonic plates, pulling along depressing fault lines: things that didn’t used to be disputable at all, like democracy, the shape of the planet, oh yeah, and how you can actually tell what’s true and what isn’t!

That’s a big one. It used to be that you could rely on science - dedicated men and women who set their purpose on being impartial about what they discovered about the universe. Apparently, their photographs of a spherical Earth, their graphs of rising temperatures, and their grim-faced warnings are no longer enough.

Then there are those trusted voices in the media. We’ve always known of course, that newspaper journalists haven’t always been truthful with us. You take gossipy celeb stories with a pinch of salt, I thought. But these days that arched eyebrow of scepticism is reflected back at all of them - the TV, the newsreaders, the internet companies with vested interests, and of course the sticky-fingered moguls who pull the strings behind the scenes. Can we trust them? At best we don’t know.

And at worst, the alternative media are busy pulling us into outlandish theories about it all. “Trust them?” scream the wild-eyed proponents behind their giant podcast mics, “Absolutely you can’t trust them. But you can trust us!”

And there you go, a new fault line emerges like a crack in the porcelain. You’re pulled down the rabbit hole, someone else you used to be close to is left to wake up from The Matrix all on their own.

I’m not trying to take sides here. I’m just pointing out that the world is collapsing like a china teacup, and society is being pulled apart as trust and truth get eroded. Call it post-postmodern if you like, or post-truth, or post-science, but it’s happening, and it is terribly depressing.

Where do we fit in as people of faith? This is so hard to tell. You could argue I suppose that religion was at its peak in the prescientific world, when priests told you everything you needed to know about the nature of the world and your expected response. You could also prove I expect, that people, me, you, and all of us, need something to believe in. Or perhaps someone. And that seems like a good place to be if you, like me, know Jesus. After all, if he is who he says he is, then he is exactly what people lost in a truthless world need.

The problem is that without him, people who claim to be ambassadors for him, have nothing but yet another empty promise - and that seems like exactly what most of the non-believing world see - just another shapeless Aslan with no power to save a deluded Narnia at all.

All I can think about today is trying to change the world slowly, around me. I imagine that that’s all I really have responsibility for - this little sphere of influence, this tiny portion of Planet Earth. I can’t influence a million people today - actually, I don’t think I really want to. I can be kind to a handful. I can show a few what Jesus looks like, I can prove at least some of the truth to be true, I hope.

I’d better hope, I suppose. Everything seems terribly dark without that tiny little light flickering.

CLASSIC ME

So Linkedin has just sent me a request to add myself as a connection. Yeah. Got an email. “Do you know Matt?” it says, “Senior Technical Author. You have 1 mutual connection.”

Weird isn’t it? What are the odds of someone with my name doing the same job as me? Not to mention the fact that this person has my face. No, it’s definitely me, alright.

What do you reckon? Should I add myself? What if I turn out to be awful, and just spam my timeline with TED talks and humblebrags? Or worse, I end up messaging me about my career! Nobody needs to hear that nonsense, least of all me.

Also, who’s this ‘mutual connection’? Who’s the only person that’s known by just me and myself? And how come that person hasn’t introduced either of us to the other? Eh?

I bet it’s me. I bet that mutual connection is somehow also me, or the other me, or whatever. Yeah that’ll be it. Chuckling to himself about knowing both me and the other me, and keeping both of us from meeting, just for some amusement. That is classic me.

Anyway, I guess it’s LinkedIn who have messed up there. I don’t think I should invite me to become a connection, and ruin the fun of our mutual me - not because we don’t all know each other, but more because I don’t want to create some sort of singularity and disappear into a paradox. And in any case, the three of us definitely don’t need encouragement to wind each other up. We can do that all on our own.

SHOES OFF?

Shoes off or shoes on in your house? Yesterday, Sammy told me that if you take your shoes off in a shoes-on house, you might as well be wearing your socks outside on the pavement.

I don’t want to judge. We take our shoes off. I did in the flat as well, although my reason was that I wanted to feel homely from the beginning, rather than any worry about dirty carpets or germs. So it does feel natural to slip out of the clogs at the door, and (in theory) straight into the slippers.

Let’s cut to the chase. Some people have smelly feet. I know this. At university, Daniel (not his real name), an enormous rugby-playing flatmate of mine, had trainers so bad that you just couldn’t breathe if you went past his door. The cleaners went on strike, environmental health put us on their watch list, and the rest of us had a whip round for hazmat suits and geiger counters. In the end it was the simple solution of Daniel getting a girlfriend that saved us.

Anyway the point is, feet can stink. As a young person, things like that really worried me - particularly what people would think if my own feet ponged to high heaven. Visiting someone else’s house was always risky if they asked me to take my shoes off, even if I knew full well that my socks were clean that day, and as far as I knew, so were my tootsies. A cold wave of terror would flood me on the doorstep.

In addition, it was the same kind of time when all the church groups I went to were intent on following Jesus’ example of washing each other’s feet! When it was announced unexpectedly at a worship practice night one time, I still remember a couple of people went white and fled to the toilets before everyone was asked to start undoing their laces.

These days, I figure it’s best to assume everywhere is a shoes-off house. Without thinking, I’ll slip out of my boots until someone says: “Oh don’t worry about shoes,” at which point I’ll probably slip back in, or just carry on with stocking feet and hope it’ll all work out.

To be honest, I quite like the Japanese idea of slippers for everyone. It’s okay if you think it’s a bit too passive aggressive, or ridiculous, but it would possibly solve a few problems if you knew there were a nice clean pair of slippers just inside the front door of the house you’re visiting.

I sometimes wonder what happened to Deniol. I’m pretty sure I know what happened to his trainers in the end. Though I do hope future archaeologists are very careful if ever they’re on a dig near my old university halls.

EVAPORATING THOUGHTS

Hey does this happen to you? I feel like it’s been happening to me for a long time. I’m talking about that feeling when you have a very clever, often brilliantly perceptive thought, but it’s not got any words, and then, when you try to speak it out, halfway through articulating it - the thought just disappears into smoke, leaving you looking lost in the middle of a sentence.

My most notable example was the conversation I was having with an atheist about faith many years ago. We were playing chess I think, and he (the kind of person who would draw mathematical equations on pebbles with a sharpie at the seaside) was several steps ahead.

“I think it’s quite easy for some people,” I said, “… to have faith in faith.” What I must have meant was that some people idolise their belief system so much that they’re unwilling to budge, even if an angel wrote instructions in their pudding. But the thought had already left my brain, and was being replaced by a fog about whether the two of us were using the word ‘faith’ differently and whether what I’d just said was about as much use as a kamikaze’s life-jacket. I had let the original thought slip away. Also I think my bishop was in danger from the knight on C7.

“What does that mean?” asked the atheist. It was a genuine question, if sprinkled with a teaspoon of scorn. Not being rude to you militant atheists out there, but some of you serve up the teaspoon of scorn very well, and you know it.

“I um, I don’t really know,” I replied.

And at that point, I had lost my point in the weeds.

I still think it’s a good point, though. A lot of people are so devoted to their faith that even God can’t persuade them they’ve missed the point of it. Real faith can only come out of relationship, not religion.

Anyway. That’s just an example. I got foggy in the middle of a great thought, as though I’ve tried to multiply four-digit numbers in my head and I’ve lost hold of one of the steps I needed to add to the next bit. And I feel like that happens a lot.

I wonder if it’s to do with brains working at different speeds. When I look at exceptionally smart and eloquent people, they are somehow able to come up with the most profound thoughts and express them with delicacy and precision, choosing exactly the best words for the job, in real-time. It’s as though their brains are busily working out what to say, how to say it, and how to prompt the next thought - all at once. I take my hat off to them - that would take me a lot longer. That’s why I sit quietly in most conversations until I’ve cooked up my thinking - as though my brain has said: “Right Matt, here’s the deal: you can have fast food and you can have good food, but you can’t have both, so maybe get back to the kitchen…”

Fair enough, brain.

Of course the other problem with slow but deep brain speed, is that the conversation can move on without you completing your thought, and then it’s like bringing out the starter after the mains. I’ve never fully known what to do with those things. I probably should start writing them down.

Perhaps though (nudge, nudge, wink, wink) I already have.

THE TEN COMMANDMENTS AND A JAM DOUGHNUT

Foot’s getting better. I’ve been sorely tempted this week to tell people I injured it on an SAS training exercise.

“Yeah, just er. Just opened the parachute a second or two too late,” (nonchalant). “Turns out it’s much harder to land on a jet ski in the dark than you might think…”

Still. I’m out of the boot now and doing my best to hobble round in my trainers. It’s still a bit painful, especially when you accidentally bend it, or put all your weight on it, but it is noticeably better.

It’s had its perks! Last week, while Sammy traipsed through a hot and stuffy town centre, I got to rest in a cool, dark church. There was a colourful stained-glass window at one end. Columns supported sloped balconies, and all along the nave, the polished floor and boxed pews carried that hymn-book aroma you only get in churches like that. High windows let sunlight stream down in rays, gilding the brass as though blessing it from heaven. I watched the dust dance in the beams.

I was there a while. The man at the back said I could sit and rest, and the vicar, a friendly man in a polo shirt gave me a gentle smile as he pottered about.

Either side of the altar, in flowing text, two giant panels showing the Ten Commandments boomed over the lectern, and what would have been the congregation. I read through them, reminding myself of the order, each prefixed with a Roman numeral.

“I No other gods, II No idols, III No taking the name in vain,” I pondered. “Fair enough.” The rest of the first panel was taken up with IV. Keeping the sabbath, which I had never noticed had a lot more text to it. Over on the other side, the list went on.

V Honour thy father and mother, VI Thou shalt not kill.

I wanted to ask the vicar whether this one included insects. He didn’t exactly look like he’d warm to the theological question. Though I’d still argue that if you put up a plaque in your house and then invite visitors over, it’s fair game for them to ask questions about it.

VII No adultery. VIII No stealing. IX Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbour.

Not a problem. They’ve just moved out.

“Do you want a cup of tea, coffee?” asked the vicar, gliding down the aisle.

“Oh, no thanks. I’m alright with water,” I replied, and held up my plastic bottle of Ballygowan Spring to prove it.

“Ah,” he smiled sweetly. “How about a doughnut?”

“Well I wouldn’t say no to a doughnut,” I said.

“Excuse me?”

“Er, yes please.”

He disappeared. Sammy wasn’t back; I had time. If I brushed off the crumbs, she’d never need to know about the cheeky doughnut in the cool of the old church.

X. No coveting. Not even the donkey, or the ox. Don’t be jealous of anyone. I thought about that for a while.

Just then, two things happened at once: the sliding vicar re-appeared with a perfectly round jam doughnut and a paper napkin; and Sammy arrived, baking hot and ready to leave. She raised her eyebrows at the scene.

Now I’m sure there’s nothing specific in those Ten Commandments that says I shouldn’t have a jam doughnut on the back pew of an old church while my wife was struggling through a baking town centre. Nevertheless, at that moment I felt like I’d somehow broken every one of them. Thankfully she did find it really funny, which baffled the vicar further. Then the jam oozed down my thumb and onto the plate and I was covered in sticky grains of sugar. I don’t like that.

“And how did you do that?” he asked, pointing to my toe. I thought about the SAS, glimpsed the Ten Commandments, and looked at Sammy. It was like a perfect example of the letter and the spirit bringing conviction in the house of the Lord. You might be pleased to know I told him the truth.

NOSTALGIA FM

I went to the hygienist this morning. It’s always a bit of a rollercoaster of pain, guilt and relief, having your teeth scraped and your gums poked. It’s also a bit weird when the dental hygienist is your sister.

Anyway, that aside, today she was listening/working to a radio tuned to what I think might as well be called ‘Nostalgia FM’ - featuring hits from the 1980s and 1990s. 

The 90s, particularly, are having a bit of a comeback, so the cool kids tell me. Though today’s cool kids weren’t there the first time round of course, so the comeback has a whiff of irony and sarcasm about it - probably just as the 60s comeback of the mid 1990s had from my generation towards our hippie parents. History has a weird way of recycling nostalgia every thirty years or so, wouldn’t you say?

Anyway, on came Bryan Adams as if to prove my point.

“Got my first real six string. Bought it at the five and dime.”

He bought a guitar at the pound shop. He’s done well out of it I’ll give him that. The only thing I’d say is that it’s a bit rich to think back about ‘what went wrong’ when he was literally a global rockstar. Poor old Bryan.

Then it was Don Henley’s ‘Boys of Summer’, another late-summer classic. I thought of my friend Sarah, who at this point would probably be one Bon Jovi away from joining in with the vocals.

Hard to do though when your sister’s jabbing you in the mouth under an interrogation lamp.

Nostalgia FM. I could do it. I could be a DJ on Nostalgia FM. All you’ve got to do is emphasise a few odd words in a sentence and then pretend as though almost everything deserves an exclamation mark…

“That was ‘Hotel California’ by the Eagles! - Great tune that, and I very much hope Marjorie from Kettering enjoyed that as she did indeed request it in its entirety, might. I. Add! But don’t put that air guitar away just yet Marjorie! Plenty of hits coming up after the Nostalgia News and the all-new! rose-tinted weather report! Meanwhile, here’s Rick Astley with his second most-famous hit…”

I blinked at the ceiling. She went round my teeth with the polisher that tastes of oranges. I’m sure when I was younger, this bit of life was about a thousand percent easier. It’s like I got to a certain age and my body has just started to creak like an old boat.

Nostalgia eh. Never does anyone any good. You’re supposed to be thankful for the mountain you’ve climbed, hopeful for the rest of the trip to the summit, and focused on the next bit of the path, wherever it takes you. I hobbled out of the dentists’ thinking about that, and how cool it would be to listen to a radio station playing ‘music from the future’. I’d definitely listen to that.

THE COMET, AND A LADY SINGS IN FUCHSIA

Let’s start by answering the question. It worked out that me and my pals could all go in the disabled space (me in the wheelchair) - meaning that we could all enjoy the gig together!

As a bonus, this also meant of course that I could enjoy the band The Comet is Coming without feeling awkward and (I’m quite specifically thankful about this) not six inches away from someone else’s backside.

We really enjoyed it. Massive jazz-funk electronica’s not my kind of thing, true, but I totally appreciated the musicianship, the production, lights and sound. And it’s always nice to be with friends!

Tonight’s musical evening couldn’t really be more different. We’re watching The Last Night of The Proms. Shekku Kenneh-Mason is making faces behind his 300-year-old cello. In the breaks, Sandi Toksvig is talking about how great it all is, and some other lady just said it’s wonderful how these prom concerts are accessible to everyone.

“Tickets are 400 quid, love,” I said out loud to that.

It was always popular in our house growing up. I’d be allowed to stay up for Last Night of The Proms. I decided to call the Intrepids to check whether they were watching.

“No, flags, Dad, flags. Have you got your flags ready?”

The soprano has just come out wearing what looks like a fuchsia dressing gown. It won’t be long before she’s sea-shantying and rule-britannia-ing with the best of them. It wouldn’t be surprising if there’s a union-jack reveal beneath that fuchsia. This crowd love that kind of thing.

“Not gonna lie,” Sammy said, “These opera singers - not for me.”

I thought back to last night and the pounding, almost psychedelic sound of The Comet is Coming. Music, I mean in all its hugeness, is truly wonderful, isn’t it?

GRAVITY

Poetry time. It’s okay; I’m not forcing you to read it. You can choose. I’m also not forcing you to believe that this came from a real place either. That, my friends, is only half the truth. No, this one’s about grief.

It’s been on my mind. Nobody’s died. No-one in my family (as far as I know) has been diagnosed with a terminal cancer either, so this isn’t really about those things. It’s more about a feeling - a sort of inescapable sensation, that I think we’ve probably all faced at some point.

Anyway, I’m over-explaining it.

Gravity

I didn’t think it could happen to me

That this were my story to tell

It’s others, I thought, who were destined to be

In the pull of this gravity well

I’d never imagined the heaviest grief

Would sink to the pit of my soul

The upended stomach and shattered belief

As reality swallows me whole

The terrible mass of a pendulous moon

In its crater of horrid despair

It chokes every smile and it twists every tune

Through the silent and sorrowful air

I’m part of its orbit, I’m chained to its fate:

I’m caught by invisible rope.

And bound by the tears of unbearable weight

And the rhythm of fluttering hope