Blood Moon

The Moon Gibbon Folk are terrified at the reappearance of the "Blood Moon". I've had to block the Express website to stop them reading lunar apocalypse material. But they still heard there's gonna be an eclipse tonight, and the screaming has started already.

I tell them that there's nothing to worry about, and they tell me that last time, the World ended.

I worry sometimes. But not about lunar eclipses.

There is something deep in our souls that cries out for apocalypses. Most dangerous are those that go out to make their own. Second most dangerous are those Americans who believe that war in the Middle East is a good thing, as it will bring the End nearer. Well, for people in Iraq and Syria, the world is ending. But Armageddon is only enjoyable if you're in an armchair on the other side of the world, saved, "under the blood" and watching something uplifting on the telly.

But meanwhile the Gibbon Moon Folk cry, carve gibbon faces into pumpkins and hide under hedges. It's gonna be a long day.

Items on the Homosexualist Agenda

Fr Z's fulminations about "the homosexualist agenda" cause Niall Gooch to tweet:

Does the homosexualist Agenda start with homosexualist Apologies For Absence and homosexualist Minutes Of The Last Meeting?
— Niall Gooch (@niall_gooch) October 7, 2014

Personally, I was all agog to find out what homosexualist "Any Other Business" featured.

Turns out it's mostly soft furnishings.

Kobane

This morning's amusing happenings will be cancelled.

We'll be praying for Kobane.

80s Roller Disco Service

A thoroughly dispiriting attempt to make worship relevant and contemporary through the idiom of 1980s youth culture. 

In many ways, though, the Roller Disco Service was the perfect metaphor for modern liberal Christianity. We went round in circles, in rather dated clothing, accompanied by music from last century.

Of course, there were highlights. "I Feel Love" as a response to the reading from John 3 worked well. "Don't Leave me This Way" captured perfectly the feel of the Old Testament reading, the assumption of Elijah. And segueing into "I Will Survive" nicely captured the way we all felt Elisha would have responded as the cloak fell from the skies.

But "Come on Baby Light My Fire" as an epiclesis on the assembly just felt - I don't know, a trifle disrespectful?

Anyway, the whole thing petered out at the Peace. The idea was that, as we played Paul McCartney's "Pipes of Peace", people would weave through the Moot House, exchanging high-fives.

Of course, we hadn't allowed for ineptness. Beaker Folk crashed into other folk. People got knocked over. Other people ran over their hands. The bones that were crushed, thrilled - as they flashed under the strobe. 

And I've not mentioned the Elephant in the Room.

Where Marston Moretaine managed to find a roller-skating elephant, I don't know. To be fair to Nellie, she was defter than the numpties around her. But the sounds of screaming disturbed her, and she reared up.

Caught a laser beam reflection off the mirror ball right in the eye, and ran for the Summer Sunrise Door. Which has the tea light stand in front of it.

Tea lights flying everywhere. But of course the Beaker Folk were in liturgical wear. To wit, big hair and Spandex. Quite flammable, that. It was a few moments before the sprinklers cut in, leaving the Beaker Folk wet, blackened and bruised.

We had the debrief afterwards. What went right, what we could do better - never "what went wrong". On my list, I had the wearing of inflammable liturgical wear, the expectation that a bunch of people in their 40s and 50s could recreate their youth, and the unwise use of lasers.

What about the elephant in the room, asked Humfrei. The other elephant, that is. Not Nelly. The location of the tea light stand.

You see, after great arguments and over the (literal) dead bodies of several Beaker Folk - I had to wait till they died before they would stop complaining - I'd moved the tea light stand to that north east door. Humfrei pointed out that, if I'd left the stand where it always was - by the Winter Sunset Door - Nelly would never have crashed into it.

I've tried arguing that we had no way of knowing which way a panicking, blinded, roller-skating elephant would escape from a church service. But Humfrei was secure in the knowledge that, had the stand been other than where it was, everyone would have been safe. As he put it, "why can't you use 20:20 hindsight in advance?" 

So, frustrated beyond measure, I've decided that the best thing I can do is resort to prayer and worship, in the Beaker Style. So I've resorted to the Moot House, put on the appropriate effects, and I'm gonna lay it all before the Creator as St Brian of Roxy decreed in his Rule:

Now I'm in the dark, off the wall

Let the strobe light up them all

I close my eyes and dance till dawn.....

Burton's Beer-Tasting Notes - Hart Family Beer "Green Hop"

A nice beer to share with you this evening, Dear Readers. The result of a trip yesterday to the Hart Family Beer "Popup Pub", at the aforesaid brewery in Wellingborough.

I shall skip lightly over the Diggers, No 8 and other such treats on sale yesterday afternoon and early evening, moving on to the reason for my visit - the "Green Hop".

Now the first Green Hop was, as it may best be described, a mid-strength, light-coloured, fresh-tasting golden ale. Of light body, with floral notes and a certain citrus hop finish. A very fine example of its type, a now very trendy idea of brewing with hops in the season when they are still fresh - before drying or, worse, pelleting removes some of those precious volatiles. A dry beer which I suspect one could enjoy for a long period.

But then we move onto the pièce de résistance. I will tell you this slowly, Dear Readers. For I reveal to you a mystery. When the standard Green Hop ran out, it was replaced with..... dry-hopped Green Hop. That is right. At the point when the beer was casked, Rob the brewer added extra hops - for extra hoppy goodness.

The creative powers of accountants are as the sands on the sea shore, it is true. But on this occasion words fail me. The dry-hopped Green Hop prickled the tongue like stinging nettles steeped overnight in angels' tears. It was an experience, a joy, like an ale dream.  If there is real ale in heaven (and how could there not be - they cater for the wine buffs) then it may well taste like this. The rail journey back to Ridgmont passed like a dream. Which could have been disastrous, as I nearly forgot to change at Bedford, so rapt was I.

On the Rorschach scale, I give it "Lady Godiva and her trusty sea-eagle." There is no higher mark of which I know.

The Guardian Gets it Wrong Again

"The history of Christianity in Spain may have to be rewritten", according to the Gurniad, after the discovery of a paten which predates the arrival of the "Christianised" Visigoths in the 5th Century. To be fair, the Guarniad does resist the urge to say the history has been "turned upside down". But I bet it was a close-run thing.

Well, a few things to consider. The Visigoths were Arians, not orthodox  Christians. When they arrived in Spain, the Catholics were already there. Spain, being a part of the Roman Empire, had had Christianity as its official religion from the 4th Century.  In fact, Christianity was in the province of Hispanica long before that, even - apart from the legends about St James, we have other references to Spanish Christian communities, from Irenaeus of Lyons and Cyprian.

So finding evidence of Christianity in Spain from before the Visigoths adds precisely nothing to our knowledge.

When it comes to religion, with the honorable exception of Andrew Brown, the Guardian doesn't know its apse from its ambo.

Hearts, Wine and Death (Matt 21:33 ff)

Ah, I love a story about the abuse of religious power. After all, I've abused enough of it myself.

The People of Israel were supposed to be God's vineyard. All planted in the right place - down there between the Jordan and the Mediterranean. The breezes off the sea, just enough rain in the right places, the mountains to cool it down, and deserts to make it hard to get at the place; like a fence around a vineyard. Just beautifully placed to produce a good crop.

And the fruit of the vineyard was supposed to be the hearts of the people. A crop of holiness. The race that identified the Creator from the Creation. They didn't need idols; they didn't need to carve their gods. They twigged that God wasn't in any particular place - he was beyond the earth, and yet everywhere at once.

And the priests and religious leaders - they'd managed a great degree of faithfulness, compared to those days of the books of Judges and Kings, when Israel was constantly falling into idolatry. Must have been an exciting life, in those days. "Off to work, dear?" "Nah, just nipping up the High Place for a bit of idolatry. What Elijah don't know can't hurt him"

Wasn't like that in the 1st Century.  No, the Priests and the Pharisees hadn't fallen into the trap of thinking their God was a creature, or could be contained within the carving of one. Do you know, I'm not sure that the pagans ever really did, either. They knew they were reaching out for something else - something beyond the stone and wood, the sun and the moon. But the 1st Century Jews were, on  the whole, a faithful lot, if a bit fractious.

But what Jesus is criticizing was not the idolatry that confused the God with stone or wood - or even gold - figures. Jesus is saying that they've turned it round - rather, the leaders wanted the things God was entitled to.

What is God entitled to? Obedience, love, the hearts of men and women. What were these leaders after? Obedience, respect - control over the hearts of men and women. What were they - even if unconsciously - replacing God with? Not wood or stone. Themselves. They were taking God's place by demanding his authority.

What was the problem with Jesus? He was the rival for the hearts of those men and women. When he spoke - people were drawn away from what the Establishment was offering. They could get certainty, obedience, but with it - what? Guilt? The fear that at any moment they might fall off the tightrope of obedience. What does Jesus offer? The same God who is interested in the world, and God's children. The same God who is greater than the earth.

The prophets God sent - what were they for? To call people to give what was due - their hearts to God.  What did the Establishment do? Sent the prophets packing. Killed some of them. The Establishment wanted the awe, the hearts, the obedience of the people for themselves.

And so God sends his son. Who's going to get wine from the vineyard - the love of God's people - now? And what are the tenants going to do? Now they've got the ultimate challenge to what they claim?

The same, as it turns out. But this time, Jesus says, it's it. The tenancy of the vineyard is changing. The lease is terminated. The contract is going to be put up to tender. And, in a bit of rough justice that maybe wasn't unknown in Jesus's world, the old tenants are gonna die. Good news for Tesco senior executives that they live today, I reckon. New tenants are going to be invited to take over the place. Maybe they will know how to run it - and whom its profits belong to.

It's easy to see this story as a simple one of Church taking over the baton from Jews. One people rejected, another now being blessed. But I do think there's more than this to be taken out. The story is about where the produce of the vineyard belongs. I guess, given th landlord has leased out to tenants, that they're entitled to some of the wine - or else why be a tenant? The old Jewish system was entitled to the love of its adherents. But the landlord demands his share. So for us, what does that mean?

What it did under the old governors, I reckon. Any Church leader that puts himself (it's normally himself) in the place of  God - expects respect beyond what is really due, distorts God's word to his own benefit - fails to give to God what is expected - is not fit for the post. All Church leaders are under that terrible challenge - to help people to see God, to understand what it is God wants, but never to get in the way, or stand in the place, of God.

And for all of us a reminder - we're planted in God's vineyard to be productive. To produce the very best we can. To give a harvest to our Lord. The landlord expected the best of the wine, from his vineyard. And God deserves the best of our hearts, from our lives.

The Woman Who Married Herself

The Guardian achieves the omega-point to which it has always been reaching, as it carries the story of the woman who married herself.

Obviously, there are advantages in marrying youself. When you die, you get to inherit the lot, tax-free. But I'm not sure I could marry myself. Sure, you've got your own company. And you're always there, by your side. But all the sulking, the bitter silences, the arguing about where to go on holiday - it's just too much of a strain.

And then there's Grace Gelder's comment that one day she may want to marry a real partner. Well, sure. But the divorce is going to be hell before she can do that. It's going to be a problem proving she's lived apart from herself for a set amount of time. And proving irretrievable breakdown will be tricky. If she's had kids by then, the custody battle is going to be really confusing. And, if it gets really acrimonious, she may be tempted to sneak into the house when she's out, and cut all the things she shares with herself into one to make a point. Nasty.

Still, Grace Gelder has had just the day she wants. One where she was the centre of attention. And now, if at any time she feels her self-promotion has made her do something embarrassing in front of her friends, her family (most of whom wisely stayed at home) and the whole of Comment is Free - well, she's going to have to live with herself, isn't she?

A Believer in Male Headship Has His Faith Disturbed

My dear friends, I am disturbed in faith and certainty. Indeed, it would be better if the sisters in my readership (and by this I refer merely to those sisters in the faith, and not to any metaphor that some of you may be imagining) went off to do something more feminine. Make tea for their husbands, brothers or parents perhaps. For I am disturbed unto the heart of my belief in the proper place of menfolk in the economy of the domestic household.

It was this piece on "Feminism's affect on the Family" that was the chink of soil in which the seed of doubt grew even unto an mighty triffid. I read it, thinking that it was a godly and wholesome piece of advice on the right ordering of godly homes. But now, I am uncertain. Was this piece written by the so-called "Archdruid" next door to make my heart unsteady within me? Or is it the worthy piece I thought, and it is my heart that has twisted within me?

For example: "Rather than featuring her femininity, she is treated as a unisex object." After 30 years of marriage, I would not dare to treat my Marjorie as anything else, to be honest. Not, dear brothers (I hope our sisters are no longer reading) since she told me that these days she prefers cocoa. She had a fierce look in her eye at the time.

"Aggressiveness -- men pick more quarrels, seem more combative, are sexually the perpetrators of rape, and so on." - I am not doubting the holiness of the author's intent, but - am I wrong - or would this suggest that men are better off staying at home, out of harm's way - ideally locked in - while women are allowed out into the world of work where, being less likely to get all aggressive, society will be a nicer place?

Or consider - "Physical capacity all the feminist rhetoric in the world will not alter the fact that men have stronger upper bodies than women and can usually run and swim faster." - this may be the deepest heresy of all that I am likely to fall into, brothers, I can hardly write these words. But I had to think - if men have stronger upper bodies, and can run and swim faster - these are not traits that are useful for an office-bound life, or indeed for being a pastor. Except when I have severely upset a group to whom I have been evangelizing in an outdoor situation, I have never needed to run faster than anyone else. And stronger upper bodies, it seems to me, are more suitable for holding children, hoovering floors or cleaning ovens - rather than being a middle-manager or a Baptist minister, for which a woman's body seems intrinsically more suitable. Indeed, in the one area where being a good swimmer might be more useful - adult baptism - this is outweighed in its frequency by the possibility of picking the children up from school and taking them swimming. Clearly, a man is better-equipped to save his children in a sudden swimming-pool-based crisis than a woman. Maybe the woman should be out trading futures, whatever they are, rather than looking after the children?

However, in the depths of my despair I have found some relief. Consider these words from Mr LaHaye regarding the time available to women: "A single woman can afford to spend 52 of those hours outside the home, but a wife and mother is sorely pressed to sacrifice that many hours to her home responsibilities." - that is right, my brothers and any sisters who may have snuck back to see where this is going! A woman cannot go out to work because she does not have enough time in her life to do a job and look after her family and husband. Whereas a man - well, there is a solution. And I saw the solution on Saturday night. It turns out that, under certain circumstances, a man can make more time in his life by using a blue box to go back in time and thus have time for a work-life balance. I have not yet done this myself, but I aspire to finding out the secrets of "The Doctor" in terms of achieving enough time to balance my life. My readers will notice that "The Doctor" is always a man.

Yes, it is true. A man should go out to work and his wife should stay at home and look after the children. Because only men can time-travel.

The Black-Eyed Ghost Children - A Request

Bother. Denzul left the back door open and the black-eyed ghost children escaped.

They were getting worried in case the Daily Mail persuades the Government to take away their human rights. I told them not to worry, it was just electioneering, but they've panicked.

If you see them, just back away slowly. You don't get a description like "black-eyed ghost children" without a good reason.

Please don't tell me where they are if you find them. They've been an absolute nightmare, howling about the place and I'm glad of the peace and quiet. If they'd only gone yesterday we might have found them a home at the Tory Party conference.

The Innocence of Stephen Fry

The BBC reports that Stephen Fry thinks he was the only one whom he hurt with his drug use, and therefore it's different to sex abuse.

Well, it's not my place to comment on which crimes are worse than others. That is, after all,  Richard Dawkins's job. And once he's come back (he's had to go away to learn to think) he'll no doubt set us all to rights.

This Daily Mail story is about a drugs mule who nearly died when his cargo broke open in his stomach.

A woman in this story had drugs shoved up her bottom to get through Customs.

The Medellin cartel raised death squads and assassinated hundreds, formed a private army and fought a legitimate state.

And the first two stories are just two examples of the mules, co-erced, blackmailed or just driven by poverty to do what they do. Filipinos, Jamaicans, others are in prisons all over the world. Some face the death penalty. All driven by the massive rewards that the trade provides.

Stephen Fry is not responsible for any of this. When Pablo Escobar was fighting his war, Stephen Fry had an alibi. He was in a posh house, putting coke up his nose.

Hurting only himself.