The Eve of St Kirsty

Our Beaker celebration of St Kirsty's birthday will not be dragged down by wistfulness and despairing glumness at the thought of what might have been. She was a bright, strong, articulate, lovely woman. And we're going to celebrate that.

Traditional Language Filling-up of Beakers

Watching through the webcam I notice that this evening's Filling-up of Beakers was led beautifully by young Charlii. A very well-delivered liturgy I thought. Especially since, after many demands from the "trads", it was held in the ancient Beaker Tongue.

Obviously, we don't really know what language the Beaker people originally spoke. So we've guessed that it was a bit of a mixture of Basque and Welsh. So it really is a terribly tricky language to use. Which is why, having demanded this addition to our liturgical repertoire, nobody ever actually attends Sunday Night Beakers. Charlii came back to the Great House quite upset at the lack of support.

I felt she might need some counselling, but she came in and threw a Beaker at Burton's head. I think we made the right choice in our trainee Druid.

A long day beckons

As the sounds of the rave down the hill die away, they're replaced by the echo of the first hymn sung by Bogwulf Baptists.

They're up already this morning. Drayton having taken on this odd idea that it is in keeping with the Gospel to preach very slowly, they've kicked off very early. He reckons his sermon - always a substantial contribution to his services - could last nine hours.

I know a thousand ages in God's sight are like an evening gone. But I reckon Drayton's flock are going to see that theological point made particularly manifest today.

Westboro Baptists "Just not finished reading the Bible Yet"

Needless to say, the irredeemable protesters and attention-seekers of the Westboro Baptist Church have announced that they are to picket Steve Jobs's funeral. Sadly the Daily Mail chooses to describe the Westboro people as "a church group". As if we're all like them. The Mail noted the irony that they announced this on an iPhone - in much the same way that an anti-capitalist protester in the summer demanded we smash private enterprise on an iPad. Well sadly we're still waiting for the first public-sector smart device to be developed - they're probably drawing up the terms of reference for the diversity policy for the committee that will oversee the governance of the device even now. And in like manner, nobody has yet developed a fundamentalist Baptist smartphone.

But I have my own theory about the Westboro Baptist Church. I don't doubt their devoutness. But they're rather shouty and anti-people at the moment. And I reckon that's because, with all that going out and shouting and self-publication, they're only working their way through the Bible very slowly. They've got through the early creation stuff - and taken it literally, which is why they have their doubts about Apple. And they've learnt the story from Exodus that some cultures are evil. And they've got through Joshua and decided that God hates lots of people.

But they've hit some long words in Judges. And confronted with words like "Adoni-Bezek" and "Nahalol" they've slowed down.

The rate they're going, I reckon they're going to hit the Prophets in 2015, and when they do they're gonna find out that actually God doesn't hate people. God may hate some of the stupid things that we do, but God doesn't hate people. And they're gonna have to face the fact that the God they think "hates fags", actually loves everybody. And they're going to change their ways and, if their necks aren't as brass, they're going to repent and start turning up at events with big signs saying "We're really sorry. We got it wrong. God loves everybody." And what they're going to make of Jesus around about 2019, goodness knows. Unless they decide that, hanging around with a bunch of blokes like that and telling people that prostitutes are in the Kingdom of Heaven is a bit suspicious all round. In which case they'll have to get some new posters saying "God Hates Jesus". And then they're really going to get no sympathy at all.

So there you go, the Westboro Baptists. They're just slow readers.

Euodia and Syntyche

Good news that an ancient Greek scroll, which I have conveniently found in the toolshed, has shed new light on the situation St Paul refers to in Philippians 4. Who would have thought that, even in those days, some church council secretaries wrote out every word spoken in the meetings, no matter how relevant or otherwise?

It turns out that Syntyche's original grievance was when Euodia presented a gourd at the Philippi Harvest Festival. Euodia complained that she always gave the gourd. Syntyche pointed out that the church was only a few years old, so that was a wild use of the word "always".
From then on, it would appear, Syntyche was "a bit off" with Euodia. At the Philippi flower festival, Euodia's fuchsias were mysteriously moved to the back of the display. While in a piece of alleged skullduggery, Syntyche was unexpectedly voted out of her position in the Mothers' Union.

Things came to a head at the Christmas Faith Lunch. Annoyed by Syntyche turning up with a bigger quiche - and putting currants in the snails to make them extra posh - Euodia refused to pass her the bread. Syntyche went around complaining about Euodia - "look at her, going around making out she's so humble. Well, I'm humbler than she is..."

The trouble spread to their families. After a minor jostle in the Athens Arms over whose mother made the better jam, Euodia's eldest told his opposite number, "don't be so touchy, Son". While in the commemorative 10 Years of Philippi Church booklet, the engraving of the "church family" clearly showed Euodia's fingers making "rabbit ears" behind Syntyche.

That these two matrons of the church were able to maintain this rivalry at a time when the church was facing persecution, heresy and schism is some kind of tribute to them. The Greek language has changed, the Bible is now preached in English and is even available electronically. The note Paul dashed off on borrowed parchment during his imprisonment has been elevated to the status of Holy Scripture. But one tradition - that of rivalry and petty quarrels underming the Gospel of peace and unity - has been maintained through 2,000 years. I believe we should all feel humbled.

Body and soul

Unlike the Archdruid, I follow a truly masculine game, where men in beards can hold each other tightly, or scamper across the sward, or stand around with their hands on their hips watching their colleagues kick oval balls, or just jump lithely into the air with their peers.

And I'm sure that our Rugby (Union) playing boys will show their round ball kicking compatriots how it should be done against the continental foe. No draws today, I'm certain. Though, half an hour in, it looks like we might lose valiantly instead.

Anyway, before the kick-off, one of the commentators suggested that the players needed to put their bodies and souls on the line for their country.

And I thought: bodies, yes. But souls? Has the Archdruid done some sort of sponsorship deal with Martin Johnson that I've not heard about whereby she has agreed to excommunicated the team if they lose? I know she has an entrepreneurial streak, but surely that's a step too far?

Macedonia and Montenegro - an Apology

In my earlier posting, I appear to have confused Macedonia with Montenegro. Macedonia is where Alexander the Great came from, Montenegro drew 2-2 with England. That's how you tell the difference. I would like to apologise to both nations. I would also like to stress, after Hnaef has pointed out my other mistakes, that neither country is famous for drinking sangria, eating spaghetti or dancing Cossack dances while wearing furry hats.

The bad news is that I've received a phone call from the England Football Supporters' Club telling me that I'm a disgrace. Still, on the bright side, UKIP want to know if I'd like to stand as an MEP at the next European elections.

On another matter, I note that Wayne Rooney has been sent off for a silly foul, and could miss the next three games. I guess he must have suffered a rush of blood to the hair. Sorry, head. Head.

Hope springing eternal

Come on England.  It's only Macedonia. And what have they done since 323BCE? (that's "Before Capello's England").

Surely we can beat a bunch of spaghetti-sucking blokes who dance around in furry hats while drinking Sangria? After all, while they were still building the pyramids we were already developing the concept of overlapping full-backs. (Hnaef - can you check this?).

Frankly we're nailed-on certs. Macedonia may as well go home.

Oh. They are at home?

Good old England! Plucky losers as ever! That Capello's rubbish. We're never gonna win anything till we get an Englishman in charge - or else a Dutchman - you know, like Steve Mcclaren. 

(Continues forever)

Very, very slow

I was chatting to Drayton Parslow this morning, who was rather energised and excited. This is never a good thing, and usually means that we have to send Young Keith round to confuse him a bit until he calms down. But, fool that I am, I asked Drayton what he was excited about. And he thanked the Archdruid for giving him an idea.

Now, Drayton actually appreciating anything that the Archdruid has said is something of a rarity, so I enquired further, and he said that he'd been inspired by a comment she'd made that "although Jesus's teaching seems to have lasted all day on many occasions, his actual recorded sermons are in fact very short". And what, I asked, was so inspiring about that?

And then he explained that he often worries that his sermons are too short.

It took me a couple of minutes to recover, pick myself up from the floor and check what he'd actually said. I even got Mrs Hnaef round to check that I'd understood him correctly, and got him to repeat his comment. And when I'd picked _her_ up off the floor (I really should have thought to stand behind her), I thought I'd better try to understand what he was on about. He, Drayton Parslow, is concerned that he doesn't speak for long enough when he's preaching. And, I asked hopefully, he's now realised that he can preach for a shorter time, because the Archdruid noted that even Jesus didn't always speak for very long?

"Ah, no, "he responded: "get thee behind me, Satan."

What? I continued, and then realised that I'd just cast doubt on the literalness of Scripture, at least in Drayton's head. Easily enough for a "getting behind him", as we sometimes call them in the Community.

"What I realised was that even if the words recorded by Our Lord are few, if he took all day to speak them, then he must have been speaking _very_ slowly. And I mean _extremely_, very, very slowly. So I'm going to see if I can't at least quadruple the length of my sermons from now on by taking a very long time over each word. It's the Biblical thing to do."

I told Young Keith. And he's started a sweepstake - not on the length of the sermon, but on how long it is before Drayton is preaching to himself. I've taken "never", because if Young Keith is there to record the time, he'll have to stay and listen, right? See - I'm not so dim after all.

Jesus and the Giant Picnics

Down in the Great Hall, it would appear the battle is still raging as to whether the headmaster is going to get off with the gym-teacher's wife, and whether cheating is ever justified in sport. Who knew Waterloo Road could be so theological? And I'm told that the discussion has been going on all night. They're going to be grumpy out there for Pouring Out of Beakers - not least because it's a foul day with mizzling rain. And the Moot House is still full of the scaffolding from Young Keith's surprisingly literal reconstruction of the Fall of Jericho, so out of bounds until the hire company comes back.

Staying out of the way, I'm settled with my kippers and acorn coffee next to a bit of a fire I've lit to chase away the early-morning autumnal blues. But kippers by a fire - excepting the question of whether you've got to have them in Texas, where everyone's a millionaire - takes me back to another early-morning fish meal on the beach-side in Galilee, with the world's least likely celebrity chef - the one who was supposed to be dead.

And in a chiasmic kind of way, that you wouldn't notice yet if I hadn't just boasted about the oh-so-clever construction of this piece, that picnic always takes me back to that other one (or two) where Jesus feeds 4 or 5 thousand men (plus the women and children - who aren't counted but are important enough, at least, to be remembered).

And that leads me onto the different ways of looking at these stories. For some such as Drayton Parslow - and myself, as it happens - believe that these are stories of real miracles. But others see it differently. The most commonly-held "less literal" way of believing in the stories is probably what I might call the "Galilean Bring-and-Share" tradition.

In the "Galilean Bring-and-Share" story, the exasperation of the disciples is mollified when it is discovered that a large proportion of the 5,000 men (and associated offspring and spouses) have in fact brought their lunch along after all. Opening the Roman-Era Tupperware (c) they doled out the  kippers and cobs they had remembered to bring along. I will note that it's an odd thing that, although Jesus's teaching seems to have lasted all day on many occasions, his actual recorded sermons are in fact very short. But the point is that from a dramatic work of power that awes all around and leaves baskets full of uneaten food, now we have a little moral tale about the importance of generosity. Giving liberal preachers the world over the chance to prove their cleverness by showing the glaring inaccuracies in the Bible to their flocks, while also letting them encourage a decent display at the next "Faith lunch".

And to this I say Phooey. The point of the story is not that when you set off into the wilderness you should remember to take a packed lunch in case the bloke next to you is not so possessed of forethought. The point of the story is that Jesus is divine and capable of doing miracles. If you want to say it didn't literally happen - don't keep the story and take out the miracle and make it some pious bring-and-share tale. Chuck out the narrative and suburban explanation completely and say - the story shows simply that Jesus is divine. Multiplying food in unlikely locations is what supernatural beings do. So the disciples are trying to tell us that Jesus is the Son of God, by telling us he made lots of bread and wine when it was needed.

So do it that way. It's got great, simple, mythic power. And somebody can still read that and have a choice whether Jesus is the Son of God or not. Or tell it the old way. And the choice is there - it happened or it didn't, he's the Creator walking on earth and a human being - or he's not. But don't fall down the middle and pretend it's about not forgetting your sandwiches and being generous to others. Because it's not.

And back to that first story - it's a brilliant story. The surprise revelation, the remembrance of old things renewed. The human closeness to the supernatural conqueror of death. Again - take it as a literally and mythically true story. Or take it as a mythical story and celebration of Communion. But you're not gonna explain this one away by claiming it's about the communal importance of barbecues.

The Year Dies

Our Beaker ancestors worried about the changing seasons. Well you had to. Agriculture depends on the sun. You need to know when the sun's powers are declining - so from June 21 onwards or thereabouts you knew it was time to stop sowing and get ready for reaping. In the despairing depths of midwinter, even as you looked forward to another couple of months of cold, the winter solstice was the promise that things would change. That one day they would get better. Apparently in the Southern Hemisphere, someone was having the same idea.

But tonight is another kind of time. Although driven by the sun, it's not predictable like a solstice. It's not even  got the hazy precision and doubtful utility of knowing the equinoxes. And it's a day of uncertain prediction and unsure definition. Here in the Beaker Community, we call it "the day the year dies". And this year, I'm calling it for today.

The rain's been falling all day. Outside the sky alternates between gray cloud yielding heavy showers, and clear skies revealing the autumn skies - when the Plough hangs in its sinister way over the landscape (albeit round here it's struggling against the glow off the M1).

Down in the Great Hall the Beaker People are engaged in an important debate - if God is good and omnipotent, how can you explain Waterloo Road? And I should be offering spiritual solace and inspired guidance. But here in my study, the curtains are drawn and a fire warms the room. Meanwhile outside wind form the north-east chills the air. The year has died. It may drag itself along for a few months yet, but we know it's died.

And so I throw a broken-up pallet on the fire and revel in the blue, chemically-enhanced flames. I really must check what preservative they've used, next time I collect a job-lot. Still, it's environmentally friendly and on the bright side all the chemicals are going up the chimney. Autumn is a time of dark, of dying, of predictable despondency. Winter, a time of sleep and quiet. It's Spring that I really fear. Because who can control that? New life is a riot - you can't nail that.

Tip of the pointy hat to Pagans for Archaeology Facebook Group for the link to the article.