Comedy and the Bible

Sometimes some things come together that give me cause to wonder. Two of Peter's readers had taken exception to my post last year on "Quantum Apples, Cider and the Origin of the Universe". Someone thought I had downplayed and demeaned the book of Genesis. However, the debate happened last October, and the World of Blog moved on,as it does, and I only noticed it again through a stray visitor stat last week, having thought nothing of it really, previously. I just assumed that the readers weren't into quantum theological philosophy - as who is? - and went on my way, wishing them well. The rest of this post isn't about Peter's visitors, but the thought was sparked by them maybe not getting my site's humour - and the thought that many people don't like comedy in religious matters.

Then last week we had that scientific announcement that the Higgs Boson may be just the mass to cause the Universe to randomly regenerate into a new one. As well as fitting in with my "Quantum Apple" theory, it also backs up Douglas Adams's idea that, every time the Ultimate Answer and Ultimate Question are known at the same time, the Universe is replaced with one that is even less likely.

Indeed, without contradicting the Bible, and in line with this latest Higgs Boson Catastrophe theory, there is a line of thinking which could say that there were repeated new worlds in which Adam and Steve were in the Garden together, living in peace and maybe not even eating the apple, until eventually a creation came along in which the inhabitants could both go forth, and multiply. And then go off and start thinking of exciting ways to kill each other. And why's it always "Adam and Steve" when people are trying to tell us that God doesn't like gay people - or, at least, that God doesn't like gay - ahem - activities? Why does nobody ever say "he never created Saffron and Eve"? Maybe because that sounds less threatening to them, I guess.

I'd never mock the Bible. But it's a text that lives in today's world. This blog always tries to exist on the fringes of science and religion - in the borderlands of two human activities that both, in their different ways, attempt to find explanations to the world as it is. But borderlands are strange places, with their own odd ways of doing things - just look at Belgium. Or, in the case of the Basques, you even get your own language. If you put two thought-worlds up against each other, and do so with the hope of illuminating both through the medium of humour, you're probably going to upset someone who doesn't get the local language.

There's a whole host of humorous Christian websites out there. There's the inimitable Ship of Fools, of course, with its vast forums of user-contributed wisdom and questions. There's blogs such as Eccles and Bosco (now observing Lenten posting rules) or Mad Priest - which use comedy against things the authors don't agree with - and I think it's fair to say they don't normally end up bracketed together. Then there's the occasional, effective humour that is found in blogs such as Peter Kirk's, or Valle Adurni - being used as part of an argument, where appropriate, rather than being the lifeblood of the conversation.

Now everybody knows that Christian humour is supposed to be gentle, raising mild and possibly even sympathetic chuckles rather than belly-laughs. Everybody knows that Jesus only ever told that one joke about the camel and the eye of a needle - and enough people have tried to prove that he was actually being serious and talking about a local gateway (he wasn't). Everybody knows that Christian humour is to be used gently to raise a smile, the light comedy that reassures us that everything's as it should be and nobody's questioning anything too much.

But I can see why comedy can seem dangerous to some in respect to faith. Everybody knows that the trouble with comedy is that  it's sharper than a two-edged sword, capable of piercing between human self-delusion and pomposity. Comedy is subversive. It throws things together that shouldn't go, draws unlikely conclusions, turns appearances on their head and shows us a whole new way of seeing things. It laughs at the powerful and gives power to the weak.

Sorry. Did I say "comedy" in that last sentence? I'm sure I meant something else.

Churches in a Co-opertitive World

I've been pondering this while watching the Man Utd - Madrid match. Football clubs are in many ways classical co-opertitive (I hate the spelling "coopetitive", don't you?) entities.

Let's take the old rivalry - skewed by management incompetence on one side and a genius on the other for the last two decades, sadly - between Liverpool and Man Utd. They are competitive. Or they were, at any rate. But although they compete, it is in each club's interests that the other remain in existence. Liverpool v Man Utd is guaranteed to sell out, adds glamour to the Premier League, generates knock-on sales in shirts, and happens to improve lager sales across the country. The rivalry is good for both, and others. In a purely dog-eat-dog world, one football club would seek so to dominate the league that all other clubs went bust. But, like wolves eating the last rabbit on an island, that's in nobody's best interests. So clubs set up leagues - agree the rules. Use concepts like "financial fair play", transfer windows - in some sports even salary caps - to obtain, if not a level playing field, at least one that isn't sloped like the North Face of the Eiger.

Even grocery retailers, those most red-in-tooth-and-claw of capitalists, indulge in a certain degree of co-opertition. The humble barcode, for example. If every grocer insisted on its own barcode format and numbering system, costs would be driven into the supply chain for everyone. And so, with suitable rules to prevent anti-competitive behaviour, the (Global Standards) GS1 group manage barcode rules for everyone's benefit.

But where do Churches lie on this spectrum? In theory, at least, the more moderate Protestant groups should act is a completely uncompetitive, disinterested manner - why should the Methodist chapel worry if the C of E is gaining lots of followers, as long as people are being saved? Going beyond the moderate co-opertition described above, churches should happily serve each other - ensuring that people go to the church where they feel most comfortable, regardless of denomination. They should cheerfully share resources, so that the best result for the Kingdom should be found across a locality - each making sacrifices for the other where required; recommending people go somewhere else if it seems more appropriate; sinking differences for the good of all. It might be more difficult out on the fringes (the 1 bn on the Catholic fringe, and the couple of hundred million on the Pentecostal fringe...) but even there there, at least most Pentecostals can regard other Pentecostals as being vaguely Christian, can't they?

I guess the thing is, some Christians see the differences between denominations as being the difference between eternal, blessed, wonderful life and a nasty, sizzly, eternal smell of burning in the nose. Which tends to focus the mind. I could give you examples of the websites that give an insight into this kind of thing, but I won't. It's bad for the soul.

I'm not sure what I'm trying to say here, apart from "Have you heard the one about the one body?" and "why can't we all just get along?" So I'll finish with this instead. If grocery chains got on as badly as some church groups, their adverts would consist entirely of telling you that their competitors' food rots your teeth, their soap powder dissolves your clothes and their staff put kittens on spikes for fun. While the advertisers' exactly-the-same products would guarantee eternal life and perfectly white teeth. If one store manager at another chain got done for "taking the work home with them", the other chains would accuse every member of staff at that chain of being criminals. And when a store closed due to lack of trade, all their competitors would celebrate the loss of jobs. That can't be right, can it?

Tidying Up the Tea Light List

I hate killing off the blogs on the "Folk we light a tea light for". But, on the other hand, I like to have a nicely-performing site, and if I add a new blog or two on the list (for of the writing of blogs there is no end), I have to remove a couple to maintain the balance of nature. Sunrise, Sunset and all that.

So with the exception of Beyond the Woodshed and the Most Boring Blog - which will both, I am sure, come roaring back - I'm afraid I've tidied up most of the blogs over 2 months inactive on the right hand side of the website.

On the bright side, the Theophiliacs seem to be a bit more frequent again. Thoughtful, pipe-smoking Anglicans who speak kindly of their more-Protestant past - what's not to like? And Simon at RobinsonS has kicked into a whole new gear of album reviews.

All of the above, I realise, will be meaningless to those of you who consume this blog solely through a Feed-Reader, or on a Mobile. To whom I therefore say - thanks for reading, anyway. If you're on the feed you're clearly a regular reader (or you've given up on your Feed-reader and can't be bothered to unsubscribe) But why not drop by the full-fat website occasionally? There's a blogroll, and a Thomas Hardy Plot Generator. You might never leave...

A Break With Tradition

Uproar at last night's Worship, Outreach and Bingo subcommittee. Complaints that our new Predecessor, Little Lil, didn't bow as she walked under the Great Trilithon during Evening Rounds.

Little Lil has, of course, taken over as Predecessor from Big Michael, who has served in this role for years. The Predecessor's job is to go in front - hence the name - of the Big Procession before Filling-up of Beakers. Followed by the acolytes, tea light bearers, pebble-carriers, carriers of pictures of Milton Jones, singers, musicians, girls with tambourines and the Little Sisters of the Holy Herring - our enclosed order of penguin nuns - Lil leads the way once round the Orchard, through the Great Trilithon of Duckhenge, down the far side of the pond, and back to the Moot House. The March of the Druids meets him there, ensuring that, even in the worst weather, tradition is maintained but I don't get cold or wet.

Little Lil doesn't lower her head as she goes through the Great Trilithon. Big Michael always did. This, say the complainers, is a breach with tradition. It is bad. God will be angry.

The modernisers, of course, say it's great that Lil has reinterpreted the ceremony. It's "bad", they say - in the ironic, present-day down-with-the-kids way. God will not care, as our aim is to make worship "relevant", not directed at the Divine.

At the risk of sounding like an appeaser, can we get a bit of perspective here? Big Michael used to bow his head on going under the Great Trilithon because he's 7'6". The clue's in his name. He's only retired because he forgot to bow once too often, and ended up with an enormous head ache. Little Lil, meanwhile.... well, you can probably work it out.

In the circumstances, the best solution I can see is to agree that Lil bows her head on alternate days. I really don't want to go to all the trouble and expense of lowering the Trilithon that much.

My Illustrious Predecessor

I'm sick to death now with hearing about Archdruid Angela.

She it is who is always invoked when someone wants to undermine me - as in the futile debate on whether to move the tea light stand. If I ever want to change anything, they tell me that Archdruid Angela considered it, but then, in her great wisdom, left things as they were.

If I preach a sermon, I get to hear about the sermon that Archdruid Angela preached on the same subject that really hit the spot.

When I protest that it's my day off, I'm told Archdruid Angela's door was always open.

When I'm tired, they all recall how Archdruid Angela used to organise all-night prayer meetings.

When I banged Burton's head on the car bonnet when he annoyed me the other day, that whole long story was trotted out again. The one about how Archdruid Angela once offered the Trainspotters' division of the English Defence League tea and cakes, and ended up getting them to confess they actually quite liked people from Asia, and used Polish plumbers all the time.

A short list of the things that Archdruid Angela did better than me:

• She was married, with a husband who baked scones.
• She had four beautiful young children - not a wastrel grown-up son with a penchant for fraud and a love of dangerous scientific experiments.
• Despite her love and understanding of traditional Christian folk music, she was a passionate advocate of Marian devotion and could play the Fender Stratocaster left-handed.
• She knew the Bible off by heart, including chapters and verses and everything.
• She never got angry.
• She was prettier, younger and slimmer than me. Not - they all hasten to add - that has anything to do with one's fitness to be Archdruid. Oh no. Just an added bonus.
• Although fond of the occasional sociable glass of white wine, she never turned up at Pouring Out of Beakers grumpy, with a hangover, and got through it as fast as possible.
• Her sermons were brilliantly concise - somehow managing to pack an hour of digestible into just twelve minutes, with three points that, although alliterative, were never corny.
• She returned answerphone messages within ten minutes.
• She added 50% to the average attendance at Lighting of Tea Lights.
• The Moot House never blew up during her tenure.
• She was great with children's work, and did not make up imaginary relatives with unlikely medical emergencies as a way of getting out of her turn at Little Pebbles.
• Not once, during Archdruid Angela's time, did any Beaker Person accidentally eat the "gods" of the Guinea Pig Lovers of Stewartby during an ecumenical event.
• She had a lovely singing voice.
• She had the ability to talk corporate sponsors into providing the Beaker People with large amounts of money for building projects.

I don't want to sound resentful here, but there's a thing that all of Archdruid Angela's fans forget. I founded the Beaker Folk of Husborne Crawley. I never had a predecessor. In other words, Angela is a figment of their deluded imaginations.

Archdruid Angela never existed.

I really hate Archdruid Angela.

A Multi-Church Benefice Limerick

An Anglican member of clergy
Had a weekly liturgical lurgy
For Sundays at 8
She was never too late
But she always felt ill by 9.30.

Festival of Smooth Running

I always love it when we get the acolytes, pebble holders, tea light bearers and carriers of pictures of Milton Jones to wear heelies at the same time. There's something so graceful about the way they glide up the centre of the Moot House towards the Worship Focus. So much smarter than merely "processing".

And playing "Worshipper Bowling" is always fun after these Occasions. Hnaef scored a lovely "strike", bowling one of the Little Hnaefs at a bunch of people having a chat after the final blessing. Best hats, handbags and toupees flying in all Directions.

Heart of Oak, Heart of Flint

I'm getting a lot of complaints about my plan to chop down the Big Oak.

The Big Oak was planted in my grandad's time. I've known it all my life. I remember the time my great-uncle Sesil drove his Wolseley straight into it, convinced it was an evil giant from Yardley Gobion. So it's not like I don't have any kind of fondness for the tree. Over a century, it's provided shade, shelter for animals and a kind of picturesque backdrop for the chickens. Generations of birds and squirrels have been born among its boughs.

But in all the years it's been there, not once has it produced any mistletoe. What good is an oak if it doesn't do what it's meant to? So it's coming out.

I'll be honest, I've not done much to help it. I suppose I could have pushed mistletoe berries into the cracks in its bark, to encourage it. But I guess that, on the whole, I thought it might be better if the tree managed to attract the appropriate berry-carrying birds to do the job itself.

So it's a lazy, good-for-nothing tree. Next time you see it, it will be the "traditional log cabin, built from local materials " in the Beaker brochure. And I'm replacing it with some apple trees. At least they are good at producing mistletoe.

The Forests of the Spirits (2600)

It was a bold move, when they passed the Sylvan Cemeteries Act (2026).

There had always been complaints from the Local Authorities responsible for cemeteries that they were running out of space. The old churchyards were almost all closed, now. The Victorian cemeteries of London, on the fringes of the suburbs when they had first been created, were now inner-city woodlands, populated with foxes and wildlife. And cremation had finally been recognised as the poor environmental solution it was.

It was the great London cemeteries that suggested the answer. And the vision that saw it was sweeping,

Across England, vast areas of land were designated for the new out-of-town cemeteries. But the bold move, in a time of great mobility, was to make these graveyards regional. Ten massive squares of land across the country - each the size of a small town. And all burials were to take place in these.

The dead were buried in their tight-packed plots, each with its own tree, and a spike with the deceased's name and a RF transponder and bar code to identify the plot. The small plastic spikes that held this information, each with its own photocell and tiny webcam, were the only non-natural objects allowed permanently on site. Each grave was centrally logged, to make location rapid when required - for a visit, or for re-use when a spouse had died. Flowers were composted a week after each funeral - and then banned forever. Spring bulbs and living plants could be put on the graves.

Visitors to the graves were allowed, of course - the network of gravel tracks, strewn with leaves in autumn and winter, gave access on the electric buggies that mourners could rent by the hour. But, to save frequent travel, the webcam allowed each grave to be watched from afar, as it slipped into its woodland peace under the spreading canopy of trees.

Each cemetery could expect 3 million visitors per year for funerals alone - plus the regular visitors to the graves. And so each cemetery developed its own suburb - by the gates were the chapels, with designated, beautiful places of worship built by each of the faiths and the Humanist's Goodbye Centre. Near to them were the Premier Inns, the TGI Fridays, the halls with rooms of all sizes where wakes could be held. Further out were the filling stations, the convenience stores, the fast-food outlets and the strip joints.

As time went by, the trees were managed, of course - the appropriate ones removed to allow space for others. As the burials spread across the landscape, they gradually formed a wide canopy - felled or coppiced, to allow enough light in for the solar cells to continue their work. At night, under the woodland ceiling, the graveyards glowed with the eerie blue of the tiny LEDs in each identification marker - a forest of the spirits under the gentle sobbing of the trees.

At the end of 100 years, the graveyards were full. Each held upwards of half a million people. They collectively covered 300 square kilometers - an area a tenth the size of Rutland, but with - some said - more life.

And then the "renewal" began. Area by area, starting with the oldest parts, low banks were built around the cemeteries, the trees were felled for timber, three feet of soil was taken up, and the process started again - the dead of the next century were buried just above their predecessors, firstly under construction spoil and then under the old topsoil.

And so it went on, five successive centuries of re-use until the Great Cold came. Some blamed the attempts to cool the climate having gone too far. Others said it was the Earth's natural cycle. Either way - the snows lingered into June, the crops failed, and the population fell sharply as people moved to warmer countries or died of hunger, cold or illness.

As the ice sheets grew, so the sea withdrew. The North Sea became once again a marshy plain. Wolves and bears spread across from Northern Europe. As their oppressors became weak across the continent, and the odds tipped in their favour, once again they roamed the British Isles, terrifying those humans that remained.

And those fugitive humans reverted, in the cold, to the old ways - hunting deer and rabbits through the forest,  foraging fruits and fungus, trying a little desperate agriculture as the days lengthened and the snows melted. Sometimes they would walk around the ruins of the great towns of their ancestors - wondering who "John Lewis" was, and why he needed such a large house, or reflecting that the McDonald clan had seemed to live everywhere. They would reflect that their ancestors had been god-like in their power, and yet pathetic in their fall.

But they never went into the Forests of the Spirits - neither by day nor by night. No matter how desperate their hunger, or tempting the chase. They would kill no living thing, nor walk among those mourning trees. Some said those forests still shone blue at night, though not as brightly as in the time of the ancestors. But few ever went close enough to see.

Feast of St Chad and St Cedd

The patron saint of looking over walls.

And his brother, Cedd. Patron saint of being Chad's brother.

The Changing of the Seasons

A correspondent notes that today is the first day of meteorological spring. "What on earth is this?" he wonders. Let me explain.

In the first place, I should explain that I am describing the situation in the Northern hemisphere, where winter solstice is round about 21 December and summer solstice in late June. If you live in the southern hemisphere, then your ancestor shouldn't have pinched that handbag in Victorian London, should he?

So - due to the angle of the Earth's polar axis to the plane of the ecliptic - or, to put it in English - because the Earth is tilted in its orbit - in the Northern Hemisphere summer, the North Pole points more generally towards the sun, and in winter, the South Pole does. This means that the end of the Earth pointing at the sun gets more heat and sunlight, and longer days. Indeed, at the Poles you get six months of light and six of darkness.

Now, if we were to take the length of the days as our guide to when the seasons are, then clearly the summer solstice would be the middle of summer. In which case, the season of summer would start about six weeks previously - ie just after Mayday - and would end six weeks later - ie just after Lammas. Likewise winter would start 6 weeks before Solstice - ie just after All Hallows - and end six weeks after Solstice - ie round about Imbolc/Candlemas.

It should be noted in passing that the whole set of quarter- and cross-quarter-days (or "proper special days", as we call them in the Beaker Folk) are about 4 days out from what the sun is actually doing. The best bet is not to try and explain this.

But - the fact is that the height of summer, or the depths of winter, do not coincide with the solar peaks and troughs. On 21 June, when the Sun's about to start digging up the potatoes and bringing in the Harvest Home, it's barely warm. The real heat of of Summer, at least in Husborne Crawley, is from mid July through late August. Likewise you barely ever get a white Christmas, but it doesn't half snow sometimes in February. This is due to thermal lag. The ground and, to a much greater degree, the sea start warming up when the days are long, but there's still warming up in August. The Arctic sea ice is at its greatest extent in March, not in December - and lowest in September. The real seasons lag behind the solar ones.

And so we have this arbitrary 6-week lag in our seasons. "Midsummer", so-called, is the start of summer. Vernal Equinox is the start of Autumn (or "Fall", if you live in the 16th century).

But why does "Meteorological Spring" start on 1 March? Simple. Because meteorologists aren't capable of coping with the concept of seasons starting on erratically-numbered days. They've moved all the seasons to start on the first of the month, so as to make their maths easy. Ironic, for the people with the most powerful computers in the country.