Dan on D-Day

A clear day, and an early start. And all the boats with their precious cargo heading across to Normandy. And among them, a man I used to know.

Dan never mentioned his spell in the Army. And so when I thought about it - as I occasionally did, he having lived through two world wars, after all - I presumed he'd been too young for the first and maybe too old for the second. He'd have been in Dad's Army, I assumed.

But when he died and his widow, Ede, suddenly put a picture on the sideboard - they were proper Londoners, they had to have a sideboard - and he was in uniform in the picture, well obviously that was me better educated. But still no mention of what he did.

And when Ede died, and they went through the precious things, then, and only then, did a member of the family get Dan's medals. Not from the attic - from the Ministry of Defence. He'd never bothered getting them himself. Maybe he didn't see the campaign as a celebration. They also found his discharge papers - a battered old booklet. Very little information. Place of discharge, number, but also regiment and dates, obviously.

Turned out Dan was there, on the day or - possibly - in the evening of the first day. Driving a truck behind the boys in tanks. All the way from Sword, eastward and up.

Still, no more details than that. No clue to whether he was brave, what he saw. And, in the regimental history, they found the clue to why his daughter - whom he first saw when she was a year old - always treasured a bracelet made from Dutch coins.

As I say, he never mentioned it. Not once. Never said what it was like, to be a man pushing middle age watching all those young lads go out and many - on both sides - not go home. Never mentioned the weeks getting out of Normandy, or the schlep across northern Europe - or the feelings of boredom on that return to England, a sense of freedom in the office in Northampton, and the new discovery of a home in a village near Luton - the back of beyond to a Holloway boy, with space and fields instead of the miles of bomb sites and the broken windows.

As I say, never mentioned anything about it, at least not to me. Just drove his lorries, wore his trilby, smoked his fags, drank his beer and still ate jellied eels. But I bless him with all my heart.

A Small Heap of Offering

Dreadful news coming out of Bogwulf Baptist Chapel.

It was their Special Service for Fundraising yesterday. Apparently their evil landlady has put the rent up again.

Revd Drayton Parslow said he would keep preaching until the "heap offering" reached 6' high. And he's still going. Apparently having worked through "The Riches of Creation", "The Concept of the Tithe", and "The Generosity of the People of Israel in Numbers", he's on point 4 now, "The Lord loves a Cheerful Giver". We've sent in sandwiches, milk and honey - obviously, I stand to benefit from this one, so I don't want them flagging - but they've still only reached about 3'4". I'm gonna have to send the card-reader in if they've not reached the total by midnight.

It's All Ogre Now

All the excitement over Richard Dawkins and the fairy tale controversy has brought it all back to me.

Back in the late 80s, I was a researcher in the Zoology department at Oxford. I was on the special Bogeyman Experimentation Unit. You may not know, but bogeypeople are the nearest analogue to a human being you can get for really good auto-immune experimentation. And, being they're supernatural you can kill them over and over again, so you save money on breeders.

The howls would carry on late into the night, carrying down the South Parks Road.  But we could only ever do these ghastly experiments at the Laboratory of Molecular Biophysics, being careful to make sure that Professor Dawkins didn't know. At the time, I though it was because, being tender-hearted, he didn't like to think of a bugbear, hobgoblin or foul fiend suffering so. It's only now that I realise.  It was actually because, if he'd found out, it would have shattered his lack-of-faith.

The Very Grumpy Ogre

Once upon a time, there was a Very Grumpy Ogre. And the Very Grumpy Ogre was grumpy because all the other people in Fairyland believed in a land called "Earth", where magic didn't work and instead of flying, people used petrol and electricity to get around in carriages that weren't pulled by rats turned into horses. And godmothers weren't fairies, they were just friends of little Kayleigh or Thor, who were happy to make some promises in a cold building.

And then the ogre would say it was ridiculous that people believed in science,  and that magic was the only thing mattered. And he would go and see his friends the trolls, who used to wear anoraks. And some of them - but not, I I have to stress for legal reasons - the Very Grumpy Ogre - used to hang around on the Magebook social crystal ball network, and cast rude anonymous comments towards beautiful princesses. But not all trolls.

There's not a fairytale ending. One day the Very Grumpy Ogre discovered that actually it was he who was living in the make-believe world, and he ceased to exist. And nobody lived happily ever after.

If Andy Townsend Were a Worship Leader

Welcome to St Agnes's. The name of the Church is the same as a saint. A woman called Agnes who was very good.

And the first hymn is "And can it be". Dennis the organist has to play black notes and white notes. He's been getting himself acclimatized to that by practicing it with the quire. The quire are going to be singing. They've got to be careful to face in the right direction, or the sound does not come out so well.

That new lad Fenris in the quire has to be a little bit careful. If he goes diving into notes like that, he could end up out of tune.

"Blessed be the Lord Our God". More of a modern song. The organist still has to play black and white notes, though. He's played other songs in the past.

During the prayers, Jenny will be asking God for things for the Church, the world and other people. As long as she doesn't forget God's name, she should be OK.

Given the last song is coming up, this is probably the end of the service. The song is in C, so there are no black notes to play. I'm not sure how Dennis will cope with this new challenge.

After the blessing, you can go out for a cup of tea. The tea will be in the Church Hall. That's the hall next to the Church. If you go out through the door, it will be easier.

Playing God

The BBC says there might be objections to the creation of three-parent babies because it is "playing God".

Can we get something straight? Playing God would be creating matter out of nothing, complete with its laws of physics, and giving it meaning. Anything else is not playing God. It may be right, it may be wrong. But it ain't playing God.

Yet Another Version of the Bible

There's always a way to turn a penny in religion.

I've been inspired by the Modern English Version (MEV) to bring out Yet Another Version of the Bible.

The YAVB is truly the most recent translation since the last one. And, in a radical step, we've not translated it from any texts. Oh no. Inspired by the Polari Bible - a version that is highly disreputable but does have the consolation of the phrase "Glory to Gloria in the Highest" - we've just run a script over the KJV to see what we get.  By the way, don't Google the Polari Bible, will you? It's very disrep..... oh. You already have.

The script we ran has been optimised to remove any hint of sex 'n' violence from what is, let's face it, a fairly sexual and violent book. Sure, we lose the Game of Thrones crowd, but we're hoping to clear up in certain more prim congregations - especially for children's books.

So in YAVB, Adam does not "know" or "have relations" or worse with Eve. No, in YAVB he "gave Eve a special cuddle". Prohibitions on sex with animals are rendered into strict instructions on behaviour in petting zoos. The punishment for blasphemy is a jolly long sit on the naughty step. And the Levitical ban on homosexuality is a prohibition on watching the Wizard of Oz, "which is an abomination unto the Lord".

I do think that Burton may have set the Bowdler coefficient a little high, though. The Song of Solomon came out with just the words "This is not only an allegory", printed on an otherwise blank page. And Revelation just contains the words "and they all lived happily ever after."

Still, the power's not in the text, is it. Oh no. It's in the merchandising. We've about a hundred different covers and picture options. I'm expecting the "Princess Edition" to be a real goldmine. Pink cover, with "The Wholly Princess Bible" picked out in sequins. It comes with its own cuddly kitten case, and features pictures of all the clean and unclean animals mentioned, in appealing dewy-eyed cartoon form. We render the text appropriately - "Do not eat cuddly bunnies, for they are too sweet to eat." In order to keep Mark Driscoll and Mars Hill on side, we feature Esther as the sexy princess who captures the Darcy-esque prince, and, not as the teenage victim of a vicious tyrant.

Likewise the Bible Basher's Edition. The size of a suitcase, and mounted on retractable wheels, it lets out the cries of the damned when bashed mid-sermon.

The Family Edition makes the most of all the traditional, atomic, well-balanced and safely normal families in the Bible. It illustrates them, with their wholesome smiles, in full-page colour pictures.  Or it would, if we could find any.

The Hipster Bible is in a comforting, homespun cover and contains lots of men in beards. At the Last Supper - a hipster's paradise, in itself - as well as a cup of wine, the disciples are well provided with pipes and craft beer.

The Good Woman's Edition features an integral lipstick holder, and a compartment containing assorted small hand tools and a mini-vacuum cleaner, specially for that woman in your life who needs to be practical, but still look gorgeous when you get home.

The Accountant's Edition is just the Book of Numbers, and a blank page for calculating your own balance sheet for the Children of Israel.

Then the Flood Plain edition comes in an inflatable cover. In the event of same-sex marriage being legalised in your country or state, keep hold of your Flood Plain edition at all times. Godliness has never been so buoyant.

We also found that if we collected up all the bits from the Bible that we'd sanitised out, and printed them all together, we got the New Radical Atheist's Bible. All the bloodshed and God getting shouty, none of the looking after the poor and being challenged to holiness. It confirms a lot of presuppositions, and has the advantage of being much thinner.

But, if you're in our target market - Christians with more money than they need and a space on the "Bible" shelf that needs the Good News in a funky cover - it's got to be the YAVB. Good for the soul, good for the image, and good for my purse. It's a highway to heaven.

Liturgy For the Nativity of Thomas Hardy (1840)

First Yokel: 'Tis Thomas Hardy's Birthday then.

Second Yokel: Ay. And that 'tis as well.

First Yokel: And a nesh baby, he were.

Second Yokel: That 'a were. And 'a grew up hard a nesh boy-chap, good-now, Neighbour.

First Yokel: You what?

Second Yokel: I said, he was a sickly child.

First Yokel: Well why don't you speak English? Yes, he was.

Second Yokel: And with all his fame, and Order of Merit and all, he's long-dead now.

First Yokel: Aye, as we all shall be.

Second Yokel: Shall us go to the White Horse for a pint of small, and then home - along, neighbour?

First Yokel: Aye, I've not had a drop o' tipple since nammet-tide on the Annunciation.

Second Yokel: Last Thursday? Tha must be a mere shudder of a mortal.

First Yokel: No, since yesterday. Pa'son Thirdly transferred it, on account of he's all Christminster now.

Second Yokel: There's a barrel beyond compare for us, then. Shall us?

First Yokel: Indeed, neighbour. For though too much of a wet may take us to the smoky house of the horned man, yet if we avoid the multiplying eye we may make it upstairs in the end.

Just When We Needed Another Bible Translation

Good news on the English language Bible version front. There's another one. The Modern English Version.

I mean, you can never have too many Bibles in modern English, can you? There's always room for another one. According to the report, "In concert with scholars we felt now was the time and more importantly we believe the Lord felt it was time". That's right. Because the Lord felt we needed about four English Bibles in about 400 years, and now they're coming out more rapidly than members of boy bands. By the way, the idea that the Authorised Version "was the first official English translation of the Bible" is incorrect. Think you'll find that the Great Bible beat it by quite a few decades.

I can believe the scholars wanted a new version. A scholar wanting a new Bible translation is like a lawyer wanting more laws. That's dinner for the next three years, right there, is a new Bible translation.

And I'm not surprised the Publisher wanted a new version. A new version is a marketing opportunity. Among the MEV versions offered is a "SpiritLed Woman Bible". It will "complement any woman seeking to develop a more intimate relationship with God." I don't know what's more queasy - the use of the word "complement", implying that the Bible is an accessory a man should get when he's chosen the right woman in his life - or the implication that a Bible becomes a "Woman" Bible when you put a flower on its cover.

And did we really need one? Just (about) in my lifetime, we've had the NIV, TNIV, RSV, NRSV, Jerusalem, New Jerusalem, NKJV, Living, GNB, WEB, NET, Message, REB..... strewth, there's barely a set of initials left ending in "V" or "B" that doesn't have a Bible attached to it.

We don't need any more Bibles. Not now. Except the Lolcat one, obviously. That was a good idea. But then that was, arguably, a new language. And Lolcatia was one of the places that didn't have a Bible in the local tongue.

But look how many languages don't have the Bible.

Enough is, surely, enough. It's a form of Western capitalist imperialism. It's saying that thanks to British and American money, our precious language is entitled to a new version every few weeks, while other people's languages can wait. Let's call it a day. Let's say no more English Bibles for 50 years. Read your dog-eared old NIV, and give the money you'd spend on a new one to Wycliffe2.


1Hat-tip to Catholic Bandita
2 Other Bible translation organisations are available

The Ascension and the Total Perspective Vortex

"......into one end he plugged the whole of reality as extrapolated from a piece of fairy cake, and into the other end he plugged his wife: so that when he turned it on she saw in one instant the whole infinity of creation and herself in relation to it. To Trin Tragula's horror, the shock completely annihilated her brain; but to his satisfaction he realized that he had proved conclusively that if life is going to exist in a Universe of this size, then the one thing it cannot afford to have is a sense of proportion."

The Total Perspective Vortex, in the Restaurant at the End of the Universe - that book that we would think was brilliant if we hadn't read The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. The whole of the Universe in a box with you, and a tiny little sign saying "You are here".

It takes under  just over a second for light to arrive from the Moon. 8 minutes, give or take, from the Sun. 1,500 years from Deneb. 2.5 million years from the Andromeda Spiral. 13 bn years from UDFj-39546284. And the observable universe is about 100 bn light years across. Which, if one believes in God, makes God very big and us very small. Or, more precisely, if God exists - our belief is irrelevant, if not irreverent - then God is very big and we are very small.

A man who was very small, compared to the universe, died at a height of a few feet, 2,000 years ago. And, according to his followers, he was raised to a great height, 40 days later. From the height at which he now is - immeasurable in light years, as it's a metaphorical height, which you can't do even in parsecs - he sits next to God, interceding for us, if you believe Hebrews.

Which is the equivalent of saying, I guess, that a constant series of communication goes on between the small man who is God's Word and God the Father. A communication that goes "down there - that galaxy. Western Spiral Arm. Medium-sized yellow star. Third one out - the blue one? Bloke called Dave. Yeah, him. Down there - that galaxy. Western Spiral Arm. Medium-sized yellow star. Third one out - the blue one? Woman called Meriam. Yeah, her. Especially her. Down there - that galaxy. Western Spiral Arm. Medium-sized yellow star. Third one out - the blue one? Those kids. Yeah, them. Down there - that galaxy. Western Spiral Arm. Medium-sized yellow star. Third one out - the blue one? Lad called Harry, being baptised. Yeah, him."

Forever. Or, at least, until he's back here with us, doing it all again but this time forever.

From the right perspective, I reckon you could live with a Total Vortex.

Summer, and Not-Yet Summer

And so, once again we celebrate this Feast of the Sunday after Ascension When Everybody Acts Like It's Ascension Again, Except Catholics Who go to a Church Where They Celebrate Ordinary Form During The Week But a Traditionalist Church at Home on Sunday. For whom today is just....Sunday. As if anyone could say it's "just" Sunday.

Today is also the first day of the Festival of Summer and Not-Yet Summer. That period between the Feast of the Visitation and Solstice, when we remember once again that meteorologists aren't ordinary people. Ordinary folk like us, dipping our toes in an icy North Sea, or putting another copy of The God Delusion on the fire, we know it's still Spring. And yet weather-folk, trying to keep their books tidy and living in awe of spreadsheet columns as they do, insist it's summer three weeks earlier than it is. Begs the question why they don't move Winter to be Jan-Mar, through to Autumn being Oct-Dec. Would keep their seasons all in one year. Although it would make "In the Bleak Midwinter" a bit odd.

Whatever. Today being both Spring and Summer makes it liminal. And you can't beat a bit of liminality. Makes everything all gray and uncertain. And Beaker Folk like that. So welcome to this 3-week Festival of the Liminality of Seasonality. Let's hope it's a scorcha. Phew.